Invasion Colorado

-8-

Dong-Fong 15





THIRD FRONT HQ, COLORADO



Marshal Liang and his Chief of Staff General Ping stood around a computer map of the Third Front. They were alone in Liang’s study, although they could hear the sounds of the Third Front Command personnel through the closed door. Two cups of steaming tea sat on the edges of the map.

The primary frontages were in Colorado, divided between Army Group A and Army Group B. The bulk of Army Group A was storming Greater Denver, while a smaller portion had swung west and attacked Greeley. Greeley was part of the Front Range Urban Corridor, which was on the eastern face of the Southern Rocky Mountains. The city of Greeley anchored the American defenses along the South Platte River, and the fierce resistance by the enemy showed that the enemy had put the rainy weather halt to good use.

Army Group B assaulted along the South Platte River to the west of Army Group A. The area of attack extended slightly into western Nebraska. So far, Liang had kept General Zhen’s Sixth Tank Army in reserve. He waited for a weak spot to appear in the American defenses. Once he found it, he would unleash the Tank Army against the opening. The Tank Army would exploit the weakness to drive into the American rear areas, wreaking havoc by destroying supply dumps, communications and headquarters units.

Liang had expected a stiffening of the American defenses. The mud-induced halt had hurt the Chinese momentum, but he expected to regain it soon. What troubled him more than the enemy’s stiffening resistance was his ally to the east: the South American First Front, commanded by Field Marshal Sanchez. By all appearances, things did not go well with the South Americans, the Venezuelans in particular.

“The First Front is tardy in its assault,” Liang said.

General Ping nodded in agreement.

Liang picked up his tea, gently blowing across it. He touched his lower lips to the cup, but found that it was still too hot. With a click of noise, he set the cup into its saucer.

He’d spoken at length with Chinese observers placed among the SAF forces. All agreed that the Latin Americans had found the invasion too bloody and the defenders too ferocious for their tastes. Some of the elite Brazilian divisions did well, particularly their high-speed armor. But the bulk of the South Americans lacked the needed fire in their hearts and in their bellies to engage the enemy with zeal. They used prodigious amounts of artillery before every attack. They also expended an excessive number of drones, both airborne and ground. Even before the mud-induced halt, the South Americans had showed a decided lack of fervor in the attack. Now, they were late assaulting the Americans and causing a slowing all along the line because they were not pinning down the enemy’s forces.

White Tiger recon teams and deep-penetration drones showed that the Americans had built a heavy defensive system along the North Platte River and the main Platte River in Nebraska. Unfortunately, the SAF First Front had yet to reach the southern Nebraska border. Instead they inched upward through northern Kansas, clearing away American delaying battalions.

Marshal Liang attempted to be philosophical concerning the South Americans. It was good China had allies. For one thing, it added millions more troops to their side. And if the SAF armies lacked aggression, they still made reasonably good garrison troops. Frankly, China needed bodies, great masses of them, to conquer the United States. The South Americans had helped flesh out the invasion force. That was to China’s benefit and it certainly aided Third Front.

However, the lack of SAF fighting power also meant the primary advances would have to come from the two Chinese Fronts. The two outer drives would have to be like a bull’s horns. Those horns would have to encircle the American front and crush everything in the center. Therefore, the South Americans didn’t need to drive the rest of the way to the Canadian border. They simply needed to hold what they had and keep the Americans from escaping their coming doom. It meant the SAF armies were adequate for victory.

There was one problem with the fact of SAF inadequacy. The Chinese horns needed to pierce the American defenses, and the deeper they did so the better. Because of Chairman Hong’s desire to capture the Behemoth Tank Plant, and thereby force the storming of Denver, Liang lacked the necessary power to smash decisively through the hardened American defenses in his region of responsibility.

“We need all of Army Group A,” Liang said. With his right-hand middle finger, he tapped Greater Denver on the map. The tip of his finger happened to touch the “N” in Denver. “Instead of attacking the city, we could use those two armies in the north to help in the main assault.”

“The American line has stiffened considerably,” Ping said. “They have received reinforcements from somewhere.”

That was another thing troubling Liang. He said, “I have read reports of massive reinforcements.”

“I have read those reports, too,” Ping said. “I would discount the part of the assistance being massive, but I do agree the Americans have received considerable aid. You and I knew this would occur. The truth: the weather halt hurt us.”

Liang grunted agreement. Ping and he had talked about this for months before the initial invasion. The conclusion had been obvious even then. China must shatter the main American Army fast, never allowing it time to regroup and regrow.

Chairman Hong believed his armies would now race to the Canadian border, along the way snatching the crucial oil fields in Montana and North Dakota. Yes, Liang believed those things would happen. First, though, they needed to encircle the Americans in Nebraska in one gigantic trap. A gargantuan battle of annihilation, with one to two million American soldiers caught and devoured. That would win them this campaign and give China the war. For that to occur, they needed to smash through the defensive lines quickly, before more American levies could join the veteran formations.

“This winter might be our last chance to finish this,” Liang said. “The Americans must be mobilizing millions of new troops.”

“Perhaps,” Ping said. “But with German Dominion aid—”

“No!” Liang said. “We cannot count on anyone else to save us. We must mass and punch through these defensive lines now. I need all of Army Group A. I need them to add weight to our northern assaults. Later, I will need them to help encircle the Americans so we may devour the enemy.”

General Ping was silent for a time. He took off his glasses, cleaning a lens with a rag from his pocket. When he put the glasses back on, he said, “The storm-assault into Denver is proving costly in soldiers.”

“We must seal off the Americans there and keep them from receiving aid,” Liang said. “We must destroy I-70. There are many places to break the route.” As he stood, he leaned against the computer map, using his middle finger to tap various locations along I-70.”

“Our Air Force—”

“We will save our Air Force for less costly missions,” Liang said. “I have talked with Marshal Wu and he agreed I should use a portion of our Dong-Fong 15s to break the route.”

“Ballistic missiles?” asked Ping. “The Americans might believe we’re launching nuclear weapons and retaliate before they realize ours carry conventional warheads.”

“Nevertheless, I will use the DP-15s.”

“Their CEP might not be tight enough,” Ping said.

CEP meant circular error probable. It was a matter of accuracy, how many meters the warhead was likely to miss by.

“The DP-15 has a one hundred meter CEP,” Liang said. “If we fire enough at each target, it should suffice to shatter the route.”

“How many missiles do you plan to use?” Ping asked.

“Fifty should insure I-70’s destruction along critical key junctions.”

General Ping was silent.

Liang picked up his cup and sipped tea. Finally, it was the perfect temperature. He regarded his Chief of Staff.

“Fifty missiles should demolish I-70,” Ping said.

“You think I’m using overkill?” Liang asked.

Ping moved his shoulders in a deferential shrug. “You want Denver captured with speed. This might do it.”

“Go on,” Liang said. “But…”

“Even if the city is cut off from direct supplies, the Americans will use air transports to ferry more.”

“True,” Liang said. “That is the battle where we will employ our Air Force. We must starve these stubborn defenders of food and ammunition. We must show them that their cause is hopeless. I need Army Group A in the north. If we don’t capture the city soon enough, I’m afraid the Chairman might divert supplies there. He has an obsession with the Behemoths.”

“As do I, Marshal.”

Liang grunted once more. He used his middle finger and traced I-70 in the Rockies behind Denver. “This time we will achieve success.”

“With fifty ballistic missiles, yes, I would think so,” Ping said.

Liang set down his teacup and picked up a phone. He stared at the map showing I-70. Then he glanced at Ping. “It is time to initiate the attack.”





PUEBLO, COLORADO



Ten big eight-wheeled Chinese transporter erector launchers (TELs) pulled out of Pueblo along I-25. The first two drove off the side at a rest stop. First Rank Wei slowed down three miles later. He took the turn-off and came to a halt in a pasture. Five hundred meters away, a herd of Holstein cows grazed. Several looked up at the three TELs.

The captain pulled up in his command vehicle and climbed out. His comm-team hurried to complete their tasks.

First Rank Wei made sure his TEL was level. Then he began pre-launch procedures.

The hydraulic system whined. Slowly, the Dong-Fong 15, or East Wind 15, began to stand upright. It always reminded Wei of an erection.

He grinned to himself. Some of the American women were most accommodating. They liked to eat well, and few in Chinese Occupation Territory had enough to eat. Already East Lightning sent captured American food supplies back to China. That made it much easier for Wei finding good lays.

With a critical eye, First Rank Wei watched the DP-15. This SRBM—Short Range Ballistic Missile—was nine point one meters long. It weighed six thousand two hundred kilograms and had a one-meter diameter. The engine was a single-stage, solid propellant rocket. Its operational range was 600 kilometers, or about 370 miles.

Finally, the DP-15 stopped, ready for launching.

Now First Rank Wei went to work. He typed in the coordinates and checked the systems. The missile unit’s captain came by, inspected his work and told him he’d done well.

First Rank Wei waited. A half hour later, the order came down. Wei stood at the launch controls. This was going to be a coordinated attack with fifty other missiles.

The captain gave the word. Three…two…one…zero—First Rank Wei pressed the red launch button.

A billowing cloud grew and the roar of the missile brought a smile to Wei’s face. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the cattle stampeded away. He knew that was going to happen. He laughed with amusement.

Three Dong-Fong 15 missiles slowly lifted from the transporter erector launchers. One of the launchers rocked badly, going up and down, causing dirt to fly from the sides. Each missile increased speed and in seconds, they became streaks.

The ballistic missiles roared away into the sky out of view of First Rank Wei and his captain. Each missile climbed at an astonishing rate and quickly reached its parabolic apogee. First Rank Wei’s DP-15 performed as built. The warhead separated from the rocket and began its preplanned descent.

The warhead was one-tenth the rocket’s size. It possessed a maneuverable reentry vehicle. That would allow it to jink, to offset any anti-ballistic missiles or lasers the enemy used to try to shoot them down. Wei’s DP-15 was moving fast now as it dropped toward target in a ballistic arc. Its terminal velocity would reach Mach 6. Maybe as important, the rocket body trailed the warhead. It was there as camouflage, to give American radar and missiles too many targets to properly engage.





PATRIOT MISSILE BATTERY I-70, SITE 6, COLORADO



A PAC-5 firing battery at Site 6 on I-70 first picked up the DP-15 attack.

The AN/MPQ-65 radar detected ballistic missiles. The radar’s AI reviewed the speed, altitude and behavior of the target. The discrimination parameters were met and it was therefore passed on. The data appeared on Corporal Vincent Jimenez’s screen as a ballistic missile target.

In seconds, in the AN/MSQ-104 Engagement Control Station, the TCO reviewed the speed, altitude and trajectory of the track. He authorized engagement and told his TCA to go from “standby” mode to “operate” mode.

At that point, automated systems took over. The computer determined which battery’s launchers had the highest kill probability. Pairs of Patriot missiles ripple-fired 4.2 seconds apart, two Patriots per DP-15.

The AN/MPQ-65 radar continued to track the incoming missiles. Detection of greater numbers of incoming enemy missiles caused more alarms to sound.

“They’re saturating us,” the TCO said. “They’re making another try for I-70. I hope the tac-lasers are ready.”

As First Rank Wei’s Dong-Fong 15 missile headed for the western opening of the Eisenhower Tunnel, the first PAC-5 missile reached its terminal homing phase. The Ka band active radar seeker in the nose of the PAC-5 acquired the DP-15. Now the altitude control motors fired, precisely aligning the missile on its interception trajectory.

The two missiles closed, and the interceptor flew straight through the DP-15, detonating it and destroying the warhead. The second Patriot attacked the DP-15’s empty rocket body and likewise scored a hit.

The other ballistic missiles kept coming. There were forty-seven of them, for one Dong-Fong 15 had failed to launch. A second ballistic missile blew up during its boost phase due to a malfunction.

American radio chatter increased, helping coordinate the data-linked battery as the PAC-5s launched more interceptors. Tac-lasers at sister sites along I-70 incinerated incoming warheads and empty rocket tubes, creating a Fourth of July spectacle.

“Fifteen enemy missiles still incoming,” a radar operator said tersely.

Tac-lasers swiveled on their mounts. Once more, the generators hummed.

“Eleven missiles incoming,” the radar operator reported.

Behind him, the TCO grit his teeth and put a hand on the operator’s shoulder.

“Nine missiles, sir.”

“Come on,” the TCO said.

The last interceptors stuck. The final beams slashed at the speed of light.

“Hit, sir,” the radar operator said. “One bogey struck us.”

“Just the one hit?”

In the end, five Dong-Fong 15 ballistic warheads struck their targets. Their CEP averaged fifty meters. Three struck nearly perfectly, one at the western end of the Eisenhower Tunnel.

The Eisenhower Tunnel was the longest mountain tunnel in the world. The explosion caused a cave-in and did massive damage.

The second missile struck a bridge in Glenwood Canyon, destroying it. The third destroyed a viaduct in the same canyon. The fourth missile hit outside the normal DP-15 CEP. It did greater damage, though, not less, causing a landslide onto the I-70 and its nearby rail-line.

The attack cut I-70 for the moment. Repairs would take precious time and no more supplies would come through by land until these places were repaired or rebuilt.





ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO



Jake and Goose agreed, the Lieutenant of the Eleventh CDM Battalion was insane. They were down to one hundred and fifty-three effectives and one lieutenant, and half of the men were shell-shocked, with the thousand-yard stare. They badly needed rest.

It didn’t matter to the Lieutenant or to High Command. They needed everyone on the line in order to stem the enemy attack, while the Lieutenant wanted to show President Sims the loyalty of a true American. He meant to stop the Chinese, by himself if he had too.

A few times the past few days, Militiamen had gone crazy, screaming or crying, just wanting the terrible, grinding battle to end. The Lieutenant’s answer had been the same every time: beat them. Fists, rifle-butts, the steel toe of a boot, beat the craziness out of each man and bring him back to normality. The Lieutenant said the men needed the shock to wake them up: that the beating was mercy, not cruelty. The worst part to Jake about the treatment was that it worked. It left the former screamer or crier with black eyes and bruises, but he often became sane again, with the madness exorcised from his heart.

The Lieutenant and his last NCOs—former guards of the Detention Center—were all muscle-bound steroid-users. They were strong to a man and the steroids must have warped their judgment toward hyper-aggression.

Yesterday, the Lieutenant had a flash of inspiration. The Battle of Greater Denver had turned really evil, almost two weeks of constant city fighting. The Chinese used artillery. They used bombers, heavy drones, anything that could bring destruction from above onto the men on the ground. Two Chinese Armies battled their way in with continuing and frightening success.

Flame-throwing light-tanks, armored bulldozers, IFVs, heavy machine gun-pouring Gunhawks, armored infantry and the Eagle commandos seized more of the city every day. The enemy brought tremendous firepower, horrendous bombs, shells, bullets and liquid fire to the fray. It was murderous war, and like rats, the Americans in the rubble and in the ferroconcrete buildings that simply refused to collapse fired their assault rifles and heavy machine guns back. Jake and his fellow Militiamen blasted back with Javelin missiles and used mortar rounds to rain shrapnel on every Chinese advance.

The Lieutenant’s inspiration was to make a blockhouse the enemy couldn’t pass and couldn’t storm. It had to be out of the direct line of fire of heavy vehicles and hard to reach by drone or artillery. The Lieutenant said it would be a death zone and used to slaughter the F-ing Chinese.

The Tenth and Fifteenth PAA Armies fought their way into Greater Denver with meat-grinder tactics, and it was working. But—

“Here,” the Lieutenant said. “Here we stop their advance cold.”

One hundred and fifty-two Militiamen stared at him with incomprehension. Clearly, the Lieutenant was crazy and needed a beating to drive him back to sanity. The trouble was none of them—including Jake—was tough enough to do it.

The chosen blockhouse was of ferroconcrete construction, of course. It was three stories tall and had old ornate merlons on top like an ancient castle. It stood on the corner of two cross-streets. Larger, taller buildings to the east blocked Chinese line of sight. Earlier bomb raids had filled most of the streets with rubble. Even better, inside the building was a big opening into the sewage system underground.

The U.S. Army 17th Infantry Division held their right flank. The 22nd Infantry Division was to the left. Like everyone else here, both divisions had taken heavy losses, but the surviving soldiers still had some fight left.

“We’re going to anchor the entire line right here,” the Lieutenant said. “This blockhouse is going to be the grave marker for ten thousand Chinese. This I swear.”

It meant backbreaking work for Jake, for everybody of the Eleventh CDMB. They circled the ferroconcrete blockhouse with razor wire. They used picks and power drills, planting hundreds of mines farther out. They would make it a deathtrap for the enemy. Afterward, they went to work inside. Jake swung a pick until his back muscles quivered. They made holes in every floor and on the sides as firing loops.

“If the Chinese break through onto one floor,” the Lieutenant told them, “we’ll drive them back out from the others. We’re not leaving this place until we kill ten thousand Chinese.”

Days of endless fighting before this, dying and retreating, had done something to the men. They were sick of losing, of going backward. They didn’t want to die, but they didn’t want to lose either. The Chinese had sealed the back door with ballistic missiles. I-70 was effectively gone for them. Air transports brought ammo and food, but never enough. Greater Denver was a freaking grave—theirs. Now the Lieutenant with his fevered eyes gave them hope to do it to the Chinese, to fight back, augmented with bitter hatred.

Jake grumbled that night to Goose. “I don’t get it.”

Goose sat against a wall, staring off into space.

“Do you hear me?” Jake asked.

“You don’t get it,” Goose mumbled. “Yeah. I heard.”

“Has the Lieutenant ever treated me fairly?” Jake asked.

Goose slowly shook his head.

“So how come the man’s insanity has me fired up?”

Goose turned and looked at him. The man’s face had gotten thinner, and there were black marks under his eyes.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “The Lieutenant’s right. It’s time to make a stand and stop the Chinese.”

“We’re going to die tomorrow,” Goose whispered. “This isn’t smart. Shooting and scooting is the way to do it. We’re alive because we pulled out at the right moment every time before this.”

“It’s also giving the enemy our city,” Jake said.

“They’re going to get it anyway.”

Jake stood up. There were others whispering in the gloom. Jake wondered if he was going to have to beat Goose back into awareness. He’d seen the Lieutenant do it. It worked. That was the important thing to remember.

“I’m okay,” Goose said. “I’m just really tired.”

There were choruses of agreement in the dark about being tired.

“All right, let’s turn in,” the Lieutenant said in his loud voice. “Enough talk. We’ve worked hard. Tomorrow we’re going to fight even harder. So get some sleep while you can. The sentries will wake you in time if the Chinese try something fancy.”

Jake lay down. He shut his eyes and morning came all too soon. His back muscles ached from all the picking yesterday and he was cold.

There were rumbles outside, enemy artillery doing their thing. To warm them up and complete the blockhouse, the Lieutenant put them to work. At 10:17 A.M., the Chinese showed up and that was the end of the drudgery.

Jake was working on the third floor, shoveling concrete chips and dust: the blockhouse was filled with drifting clouds of dust. A shrill whistle brought him around. He looked up. Militiamen ran to their posts. Jake dropped his shovel and dashed to his weapons. He had an M-16 and a single-shot RPG. Despite his sweat, he shrugged on his jacket. Goose and Private Larry Barnes hurried to him. They each carried similar weapons.

The artillery-spawned rumbles grew. The Chinese had aimed their heavy guns at them, or near here. Big shells landed, shaking the ground and producing terrific explosions. Bits of dust and tiny pieces of loose concrete rained on them, forcing Jake to put on his helmet.

The fighting started ten minutes later.

“Steady,” the Lieutenant told the first team. The Lieutenant was a steroid freak, a little over six feet tall with massive shoulders and chest. He had a bull neck and a much-too wide of a face. He wore an armor vest, helmet and kept a heavy .50 caliber pistol ready. It was a hand-cannon, a real piece of work. Jake had seen him blow down enemy soldiers with it. Every time the Lieutenant shot, his arm remained rock-steady.

Creeping near a window, Jake saw the first attack. Chinese soldiers in body armor crept and crawled toward them through the rubble and through dirty brown slush. The Lieutenant had told the Eleventh to hold their fire. Let the enemy get close the first time.

The firefight started when the first Chinese soldier crawled onto a landmine. It blew up and the soldier rained blood, flesh and shrapnel: all that remained of him and his armor.

A whistle blasted from between the Lieutenant’s teeth.

Bullets poured onto the enemy. Grenades flew. A few Chinese fired back for a short time, until they died because they were too exposed. Jake grinned at Goose.

The next wave of infantry came with Gunhawks overhead. Blowdart missiles from the blockhouse roof brought down two of the infernal helos. Wisely, the Chinese infantry and choppers retreated.

Twenty minutes later, artillery shells pounded near, but the buildings to the east sheltered them. A recon drone showed up later, but an M2 Browning took care of it, using less than fifty rounds to drop it.

The Lieutenant had obviously chosen the blockhouse with care. It was protected and deeper in the city than any of their previous locations. If the Chinese wanted this place, they were going to have pay in gallons of blood to do it.

At 2:12 P.M., a flame-throwing tank churned toward them. The treads squealed and clanked as it neared. The Lieutenant had two big howitzers ready for such an emergency. Using direct fire, he punched holes in the tank and created a nice fireball that burned enemy soldiers that had gotten too close to their brutish flame machine.

“It’s working,” Goose told Jake. “The Lieutenant is a genius.”

Jake hoped Goose was right.

At 4:42 P.M. the armored bulldozers came. Jake peered through a firing loop and saw jetpack commandos land on top of buildings to their east. Ever since Texas, he’d hated the flyers.

“We should have put sniper teams up there,” the Lieutenant said.

“What about the bulldozers?” asked an NCO. “They’ll clear our mines without a problem.”

The Lieutenant turned to Jake. “Corporal, it’s your turn. See if you can do something about the bulldozers.”

The steroid-monster had never taken to him, but the man was killing the enemy and that counted for something.

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

“Don’t come back unless you destroy all of them,” the Lieutenant added. “I don’t need any cowards in my outfit.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed, as he looked the Lieutenant in the eye. He noticed a small mole above the right one. Jake didn’t sneer. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything. Outraged heat built in his chest until finally the words seem to bubble up out of their own accord.

“Why don’t you come with us then, sir,” Jake said. He turned for the underground entrance before the Lieutenant could answer, not caring if Goose or Barnes followed or not. He was going to destroy the three bulldozers no matter what it took.

A coward, am I? We’ll see about that.

A few minutes later, Jake, Goose and Private Barnes climbed down a steel ladder into the sewer system. Jake used a lamplight on his helmet, the beam paving the way. It was cold down here, and damp, and it stank. He marched with bitterness, gripping his M-16 by the handle and clutching the RPG with the other.

The old brick walls shook and bits of slime dripped to the floor, dislodged by the enemy artillery fire.

“I don’t like this,” Barnes said in a quavering voice. “Why did he have to choose us, huh?”

“Stay here if you like,” Jake said. How dare the Lieutenant call him a coward. He should have hit the Lieutenant in the face. Forget that, he should have drawn his gun and blown the prima donna away. He’d fought his way free of the Chinese, marching all the way out of Texas and New Mexico. He’d volunteered a second time. The captain had liked him. The steroid-freak Lieutenant—the man had a death wish and couldn’t figure out why others wanted to live.

“I think this is our exit,” Goose said, pointing up.

Jake didn’t think about it. He didn’t check on his sewer map. Instead, seething inside, he slid the straps of his rifle and RPG over his shoulders and climbed the steel ladder.

“Wait for us,” Goose said.

Jake was done with listening to anyone. He shoved off the sewer cover and popped out of the ground like a gopher. Five Chinese soldiers had their backs to him. They were in a bent crouch, following an armored bulldozer. The thing’s engine revved with power. Concrete rolled and clattered ahead of its blade.

It was loud out here and far too bright.

Jake climbed higher, slid the M-16 off his shoulder, readied it and—oh, he noticed the five Chinese wore assault-style body armor, the heavier kind. He aimed at their exposed necks, and he fired.

They dove forward, each of them. Three did it because bullets tore open their necks. The last two wanted to live and did it instinctively. Those two twisted around, bringing up their weapons.

Jake shot them in the face, ending that part right there. He climbed out of the hole, changing to his RPG. He knelt on one knee and chose the bulldozer’s engine air intake as his target. With the iron sights, he aligned the prize, fired and felt the bang of the shaped-charge grenade’s launching charge.

Jake hugged the cold snow, shoving his head down. A terrific explosion followed. He looked up. Black smoke billowed from the bulldozer. The driver inside was slumped over dead.

“Give me another!” Jake shouted into the manhole.

A second later, another RPG poked up.

With it, Jake began to hunt. A coward, am I? We’ll see about that.

Enemy fire caused him to hurl himself down onto the ground. He low-crawled as bullets chipped concrete or whined off the street. Wet slushy snow soaked his clothes. Like a rat, he used the rubble. Like a hunting leopard, he listened for the rev of a bulldozer’s engine and the scrape of its blade. Then he saw it. The thing was thirty yards away. As before, Chinese soldiers crouched behind it.

Jake sighted on the ugly little thing, fired and crawled away as the infantry turned and blasted their weapons at him.

Some of the madness departed him then. He grew aware of the cold, of his slush-soaked clothes. Dozens of enemy soldiers tried to kill him, spraying fire his direction. He popped up and emptied a magazine at the closest ones. Afterward, he crawled.

This is the Rat War.

Jake reached the manhole he had emerged from. Lying on the street, Barnes stared at him with dead eyes. Half his head was gone.

“Goose!” Jake shouted.

From a different direction, Goose came running in a bent crouch. Smoke billowed behind him. Goose’s face was taut. His eyes seemed to bulge out of his head.

“Let’s get out of here!” Goose screamed. “I killed my bulldozer!”

Jake paused long enough to drag one of the Chinese he’d killed. As Goose darted into the sewer hole, Jake reached the opening and shoved the dead enemy down. He heard the corpse hit the bottom with a thud, then Jake slid down feet first, moving fast.

“What’s this for?” Goose asked down in the tunnel.

Jake didn’t answer. He began unbuckling the body armor.

“We don’t have time for this,” Goose said.

Jake looked up. Chinese infantry might show up at any time, firing down the hole. He grabbed the corpse’s left ankle and dragged. The armor scraped against the damp concrete.

Neither said anything more. Jake pried off the body armor. Since it would be hard carrying it, he put it on. It was a tight fit, but now he had armor.

Later, the Lieutenant gave Goose and him a hand out of the sewer system. They were in the basement of the blockhouse, with a heavy machine aimed at the hole.

The Lieutenant noticed the body armor. He said, “Where’s Barnes?”

Jake shook his head.

“Dead,” Goose said.

“It’s too bad about Barnes,” the Lieutenant said. “He was a good American.” He studied them. “You two did good work.” The man turned to go.

Jake’s mouth seemed to come alive. “Still think I’m a coward?”

The Lieutenant stopped, and slowly, he faced Jake.

Jake expected rage. He wondered if the Lieutenant would haul off and hit him. Instead, the wide face looked calm. The eyes regarded him and the Lieutenant reached toward him.

Jake didn’t move, but he was ready for anything.

The Lieutenant flicked a finger against the Chinese body armor, tapping it with a fingernail. “That was a good idea, Corporal.”

“This one is mine,” Jake said belligerently.

There was a flash in the Lieutenant’s eyes. Jake’s stomach muscles tightened. A second passed. Then the tiniest of grins touched the Lieutenant’s mouth.

“You ever play football, Corporal?” the Lieutenant asked.

The question surprised Jake. “No. I played hockey. I grew up in Alaska.”

“Hockey is a man’s sport,” the Lieutenant said. “Did your coach ever fire you up so you’d skate through a brick wall to defeat the opposing side?”

Jake got it then. It made him squint at the man. The bastard had played him. He couldn’t believe it.

The Lieutenant flicked the body armor a second time. “You earned this one. It’s yours, Sergeant.”

“Sergeant?” Jake asked.

“I’m promoting you. You’re going to be in charge of our sewer squad.”

Jake could only blink.

“Get some sleep,” the Lieutenant said, “and think about the sewers down there and how to beat the enemy when he comes crawling to take us out. This fight is far from over.”





THIRD FRONT HQ, COLORADO



Marshal Liang sat before a computer screen in his study. Under the desk, he soaked his feet in hot water. They had been aching lately. The heat felt good and allowed him to move his toes.

He awaited a call from Chairman Hong. The events of the past few weeks had not gone as planned.

Liang tapped the screen, putting up an operational map. Army Group B had taken Greeley and broken through the South Platte Defense Line all the way to Sterling. Zhen’s Tank Army drove for Cheyenne, Wyoming, but at a snail’s pace compared to the summer battles. The Americans were tougher now. Worse, the SAF First Front had only now reached the Platte River in Nebraska. As Liang had predicted, the Americans had turned the river position into a fortress line. The SAF attack had already stalled.

“Prepare to speak to the Leader,” an operator said.

Liang tapped the screen. Chairman Hong’s Polar Bear symbol appeared. A moment later, Jian Hong regarded him. The Leader’s eyes were red, and he looked angry. That was a bad sign.

“Marshal Liang, this is a pleasure,” Hong said abruptly.

Liang bowed his head reverently. He didn’t like the tightening of his chest. “The pleasure is mine, Leader. This a great honor.”

Hong closed his eyes and nodded in a manner that revealed he understood the honor he did Liang. When Hong opened his eyes, his manner resumed its hostility.

“I am not pleased with Third Front,” Hong began.

“I am grieved to hear this,” Liang said. He recalled stories about Hong’s displeasure with men who failed to accept reprimands. Maybe he could nip the Leader’s anger in the bud. “I am sure the fault lies with me,” he added.

“This I already know,” Hong said.

Liang paused, as the tightening of his chest worsened. In the past, it had always been tedious and dangerous speaking with Chairman Hong. Now…he felt growing alarm. Hong had never spoken to him like this before. And why were the Chairman’s eyes so red?

“I set a task for you, Marshal. I’m speaking about the capture of the Behemoth Tank Manufacturing Plant. The city still resists your arms. Until this moment, the Americans have not been able to hold onto a defensive position for so long.”

“Throughout the campaign,” Liang said, “the Americans have become increasingly stubborn. Here, they fight as men possessed.”

“Bah,” Hong said. “They are barbarians without soul. A cornered rat will fight if the cat or dog doesn’t lunge in fast enough. In Denver, you have failed to strike with speed. You must treat the Americans like rats. Do they not hide in the ruins and rubble like rodents? Why have you not closed your jaws on their necks and shaken them to death?”

“You speak wisdom, Leader. I thank you for it. Yet if I may, I would like to point out that Greater Denver is much like Los Angeles. It is a large, urban environment and—”

“No,” Hong said quietly but with menace. “You must strike hard and fast. Did I not just tell you how to defeat these rats? Many years ago, I had to tell Marshal Nung how to properly conduct his North Shore Alaskan assault. It is my lot to see these military problems with a sharper eye than my top commanders.”

“Your wisdom is the sun to our actions,” Liang said.

“The Behemoths thwarted Chinese arms once in Los Angeles and once again with our air assault here along I-70. I will not allow these hideous tanks to stop us a third time. Therefore, you will capture the plant or stamp it out of existence.”

“Leader, if I could make an observation about the Behemoths?”

“Speak,” Hong said sarcastically. “Grace me with your military acumen.”

“We have yet to see the Behemoths in action,” Liang said.

“Are you addled? Have you forgotten your aborted air assault on I-70?”

“We definitely witnessed force cannons at work,” Liang said. “But the longer I’ve thought about that, the more unlikely it seems to me that those were really Behemoths.”

“Explain that,” Hong said.

“Perhaps the wear to the gargantuan tanks in Los Angeles was heavier than we realized. Why else have the Americans waited to unleash them in the Midwest? We witnessed the force cannons during the I-70 assault. Maybe the Americans stripped the Behemoths of their rail-guns and scrapped the tank bodies. Why would the Americans put such unwieldy tanks in the Rocky Mountains? That makes no military sense.”

“That is an interesting question,” Hong said. “If true, it makes taking this plant all the more critical. I have it on excellent authority that the Americans are mass-producing the tanks. It could be they are mass-producing the rail-guns even faster. Obviously the weapons are very effective even without their armored chassis. Yet we should have greater evidence of them.”

“Leader, I doubt the Denver plant still runs. I have—”

“Do not assure me of such a thing,” Hong said, his anger rekindled. “The Americans must be using the plant even now. The German industries remained active during World War II under heavy allied bombing. Surely, these rodent-like Americans can have done the same thing. Perhaps they are underground.”

“Our bombing raids are more accurate these days,” Liang said. “And—”

Hong made a chopping gesture with his right hand. “Your arguments weary me, Marshal. I have an order for you, a directive straight from my office. Capture Denver—and do it now. Do not give me more delays. Finish the task and close your jaws on these rats.”

Liang didn’t know what to say.

Hong’s eyes became redder than earlier. He leaned forward. “Do you lack the soldiers to do your task?”

“Leader, I would like to point out—”

“Answer the question,” Hong said.

Liang dreaded the possibility of diverted troops going to Denver. He needed them on the Northern Front.

“No, Leader. I have enough men.”

“You’re lying. Now you listen to me, Marshal. I am sending you replacement levies. Use them to storm the city. Give me that plant and do it now!”

“Yes, Leader,” Liang whispered. This was bad. He needed the replacement levies in the north. This entire operation against Denver was a waste of time and soldiers.

“I realize you cannot see the situation as clearly as I do,” Hong said. “Did I not light a fire under Marshal Nung many years ago?”

“Yes, Leader,” Liang said. He had read the reports of that Alaskan attack. It still amazed him the Chairman had shown such ability. What had happened to him in the interim?

“I say capture the city now,” Hong said, “but I am willing to give you a small amount of leeway. You are said to be among my most brilliant Field Marshals. Tell me truthfully, Liang. Can you guarantee me the city’s capture within the next two weeks?”

Liang saw the look in Hong’s eyes. His exalted rank as marshal and perhaps his very life rested on his answer. There was only one thing to say.

“Chairman Hong, I guarantee the city’s capture and I will hand you the manufacturing plant within the next fourteen days.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” Hong said, sitting back. “Since time is pressing, I will leave you to your task. Let me give you one last parting word of advice. Do not fail me, Marshal Liang. No, do not fail.”

“No, Leader, I will not fail.”

Hong nodded, and a second later, the screen went blank.

It left a bitterly reflective Liang. And he finally noticed that the bowl of water had cooled. He removed his feet so water dripped, and he put them on a towel.

He must storm all of Denver in the next fourteen days. It would be a difficult task. Still, he had a secret weapon. He’d hoped to save the system for a different emergency. Now, it appeared as if he would have to unveil the secret to the Americans early. It would help knock out stubborn points of resistance in the city, of that he had no doubt. But to let the Americans know about the secret this soon, that might be a mistake.

Liang picked up a phone, and it troubled him to see that his hand shook. He sighed. The sooner he put this into operation, the quicker the city would fall to him and the sooner he could concentrate on the northern advance.





CENTENNIAL, COLORADO



Commander Bao of MC ABM #3 had finished his inspection around the triple trailers. In the chill morning air, he climbed the rungs of the main compartment, watching his breath puff.

They had moved the vehicle last night and positioned it on this hill in Centennial. The vehicle was exposed up here, precisely against regulations. The normal SAM launchers weren’t even in position yet. It was unnerving, and it made Bao’s ulcer bite. Since he was alone outside, he winced, and he pressed his left cheek against the cold metal. The ulcer had been getting worse lately. The American Air Force kept attacking the Chinese ring around Denver, and his kill ratio was down. MC ABM #6 had almost overtaken him in efficiency.

He could never allow that to occur. Yesterday, Bao had raised his voice against the crew. In the past, he’d prided himself on always remaining calm. Several operators had glanced at him sharply. He regretted the raised voice, and the glances had angered him, which had worsened the ulcer.

I am the best MC ABM Commander. At the end of the campaign, my vehicle will achieve the highest award. I will show everyone that I outperform all who challenge me.

Bao glanced around at the devastated city. Everywhere stood ruins and rubble. Smoke drifted from places and the city stank of oil, dirt and death. In the distance stood tall buildings. The Americans held those. The Americans still clung to too much of Denver.

Marshal Liang had given a new order last night. It was rumored he did it at the command of Chairman Hong. Not only did Bao’s MC ABM sit up on a hill, but six others did also. Their primary mission was anti-air and anti-missile defense. That was always in heavily defended positions, as these machines were the greatest and most prized military vehicles in the entire invasion Army. In a pinch, though, the MC ABM could operate in a different and still very lethal way.

Bao reached the hatch, opening it and climbing into the warm command compartment. A soft blue light lit the cramped chamber. Everyone sat at his station, checking systems.

He’d been outside because there were many things that could have gone wrong due to the movement. Together, the triple-trailered vehicle weighed over six hundred tons. It took time and effort to move the tiered system into place. In some ways, they were like towed pillboxes of fantastic ability.

Taking off his coat, Bao settled into his chair.

The Army’s tac-lasers were pygmies compared to the MC ABMs. Bao’s monster together with the others had been providing an effective defense against American air attacks and enemy cruise missiles. Today, they would be used for something completely different.

Bao checked his watch. It was 7:32 A.M.

Marshal Liang planned the heaviest assault on Denver to date, heavier even than the beginning attack. The MC ABMs would help directly today.

7:33 A.M. now, it meant the assault battalions were poised to go. The drones surely gathered in the air, ready to enter the fray, and the standoff bombers likely awaited the word.

The Chinese and Americans had already waged grim weeks of city warfare. Bao knew that each side had taken bitter losses and would likely take many more.

Despite the twinge in his gut, Bao allowed himself a small smile. This morning, the toughest U.S. defensive positions would wake up to a science fiction surprise. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. Then he went to work, checking his crew’s performance.

Good, the laser-aiming mirrors were pointed toward the city. They would soon direct the beam on a parallel course with the ground.

Bao flipped a switch, bringing up the main targeting screen. He tapped it and found that Tenth Army HQ had already linked with them. A red dot appeared. Bao ran a check on his coordinate map. Ah, this was interesting. Did the Army HQ think it would be a test for them? Bao had no doubt at what his vehicle could achieve.

Quietly, Commander Bao spoke the required words.

Everyone put on their huge headphones/mufflers. A few of the personnel shifted in their seats as if uncomfortable. Bao wished there was some way to dampen the terrible noise that was about to occur. The continuous exposure to the sound was affecting his crew’s performance.

Checking his watch, Bao saw it was 7:46 A.M. The crew had finished the prep work and targeting had selected the object of assault.

“Give me power,” Bao said in his calm voice.

Chemical rocket fuel pumped the magnetic-propulsion turbine. The whine climbed the octaves to a nearly unbearable level. Crewmembers hunched their shoulders. Like Bao, they endured the hateful noise.

“Fire,” Bao said.

Relays clicked. A second later, a heavy laser beam poured out of the focusing system. The beam flashed across the city and struck its first objective with annihilating energy.

The other MC ABMs came online and they too poured their beams at carefully chosen targets.

Inside MC ABM #3, Bao studied his split screen. A White Tiger recon team provided real-time data. His beam burned into an enemy bunker. It melted the outer surface and punched through.

“Move the turret point three degrees,” Bao ordered.

Slowly, the turret shifted. That moved the focusing mirrors. That in turn moved the constant beam. At the end of the ray, it sliced the bunker, melting and burning through. The hellish beam must have fried the Americans inside, causing them to turn into vapor.

Bao didn’t realize it, but his hands balled into fists as he watched. This felt different from missile destruction. Now he was killing people.

“Raise the projector a half degree,” Bao said, with a twinge in his voice. Because of the horrendous noise inside the MC ABM, probably none of the crew noticed the difference.

At his command, the focusing projector lifted, and so did the beam destroying the American bunker. As if the ray was a giant knife, the strategic-level laser sliced and diced the American bunker that had stood against countless Chinese assaults.

Bao flinched as a red alert beacon flashed on his screen in the corner. It kept disappearing and reappearing, and put red spots in his eyes. The beacon had never flashed before. With missile and air destruction, they used pulse shots, not a continuous burn.

“Shut down power,” Bao said, speaking sharply.

The horrible whine climbed down the octaves, bringing needed relief to the crew.

“Dampening estimate?” Bao asked.

“Two minutes,” the dampening officer said.

Bao licked his lips. This was going to be a long day. He’d read the report on projected MC ABM use for today. It would leave them with less anti-missile and anti-air protection than usual. High Command must believe this ground use outweighed a possible American surprise air attack.

First glancing around to make certain no one watched, Bao opened the compartment under his chair. He took out the medicine. He twisted the lid and drank from it. The cool, thick liquid slid down his throat. He was going to have to take several swallows to put his ulcer to rest today.

In another few minutes, they would fire again at a different target. The Americans were going to learn a lesson they would not soon forget. Bao hoped it didn’t ruin his MC ABM or any of the carefully calibrated components.

He checked his watch. Then he took another sip before stowing the bottle. This was going to be a long day.





ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO



The morning began like many others for Jake. He stretched sore muscles and ate a light breakfast of MREs.

The blockhouse position had held off countless attacks. The landmines, the razor wire, the heavy ferroconcrete walls combined with the stubbornness of the defenders had thwarted the Chinese many times. The blockhouse indeed stood like an anchor.

More than once the Chinese had driven back the U.S. divisions on either side of the blockhouse. But because the three-story building stood, pouring fire on the Chinese from the flanks, the Americans soon regained the lost ground. Bulldozers, Gunhawks, drones, Special Infantry assaults, mortars from the top of the tall buildings to the east, nothing had dislodged the dwindling Eleventh CDM Battalion from its castle.

Fifty-three effectives remained, led by the Lieutenant. None of his old muscle-bound NCOs remained. Jake and Goose still lived, and they had fought many grueling battles in the sewer system.

Jake donned his stolen Chinese body armor. He picked up his M-16 and strode to the Lieutenant. They were on the ground floor. The big Lieutenant listened to the radio.

“Anything new?” asked Jake.

The Lieutenant looked up. Like the rest of them, the man had gray features and hollow-staring eyes. He’d lost weight, but something still flickered in his gaze, something solemn and maybe even majestic, although it was certainly crazed with inhuman determination.

“The Chinese—” the Lieutenant said.

A strange phenomenon halted his words. Nothing like this had ever happened before. A gaping hole appeared in the wall. It just appeared, and there was hot wavering air in the center of the room. A second later, another hole appeared as if an invisible nail had been punched through, although the edges of the holes burned.

“What’s happening?” asked Jake.

The Lieutenant stared at him in incomprehension.

The hot wavering beam in the building began sliding leftward. As it did, an invisible knife appeared to cut out the front wall and then the back wall at exactly the same position.

“Enemy laser!” the Lieutenant roared. “Everyone into the sewer system!”

The blockhouse shook and trembled, and dust rose and concrete rained.

Jake didn’t know what was going on, but he’d heard enough. This was freaking crazy. He grabbed the lip of his helmet—he wore it on his head—and he raced for the stairs. As he ran, more of the blockhouse trembled and shook, and now the strange phenomenon started to climb, cutting out wall as it did.

The world became a giant earthquake for Jake. Concrete rained and walls collapsed. Everything rumbled. He sprinted, dodged, caromed off something and made it into the basement. He moved to the opening to the sewer system. Like rats running for their lives, Militiamen disappeared into the opening.

Jake looked back.

The Lieutenant turned ghost white. “Go, go, go!” he seemed to say. Jake couldn’t hear a thing. The earth was too busy rocking and roaring. It was surreal. It was a nightmare. Jake made it down the hole. He didn’t bother with the steel ladder. He just dropped and landed heavily. It hurt his feet and he collapsed. Survival instinct kept him going. He crawled on his hands and knees. Something smashed behind him, a body perhaps. Heavy thuds hammered above him. Was the blockhouse coming down on their heads? This was madness. The damned Chinese had everything.

With his mouth opening as he panted heavily, Jake crawled and crawled. Maybe a hundred yards later a shouting voice brought a modicum of sanity to him. He looked back. In the gloom and drifting dust, the Lieutenant stared at him with nearly blank eyes.

“What?” Jake managed to ask.

“Heavy laser,” the Lieutenant said. His voice was without emotion.

“What do you mean?” Jake said.

The Lieutenant shook his head. Then he said, “Is there an open area near here?”

Jake tried to think. More rumbles sounded, crashes and roars. The blockhouse came down and a billowing dust cloud rolled at them, choking him and turning everything dark.

An hour later, the Lieutenant took roll call in the sewer. Nineteen effectives were left, among them Goose.

“Do you know which way to our lines?” the Lieutenant asked.

“Yeah,” Jake muttered.

“Then let’s go,” the Lieutenant.

“Why?” asked Jake.

The Lieutenant took his time answering. Finally, he asked, “Did you enjoy that?”

Jake managed a dull laugh.

“Neither did I,” the Lieutenant said.

“So?”

“We’re going to report this. Then I’m going to pay back the Chinese. I remember every hurt, then double it and look for a way to do it back to them.”

Jake shook his head. “We can’t do anything like they just did.”

“We’ll see,” the Lieutenant said. “Until then, are you still with me?”

Jake knew the Lieutenant was nuts: not just a little battle crazy, but truly over the deep end. What did it matter, though?

“Yeah, sure, I’m with you,” Jake said.

“Good,” the Lieutenant said. “Lead the way. We need to report to somebody what just happened to our blockhouse.”





BEIJING, PRC



Two East Lightning operatives flanked Shun Li as she strode down a large corridor leading to Police Minister Xiao’s chamber. Each had an open holster, with his gun-hand drifting near the weapon. The leftward operative had a jet-black ring on his middle finger.

The two operatives had picked her up at her apartment after Tang—one of Hong’s Lion Guardsman—had dropped her off.

They had said nothing driving her to the Police Ministry. Now the three of them hurried. The truth of the matter was that Shun Li had been expecting something like this for several days.

She visited Chairman Hong’s country estate every day. She often played with the polar bear cub. Each time was a frightening experience. She played with the cub as the mother bear paced behind iron bars, watching. Often, the mother roared at Shun Li, furious that a human should touch her precious cub. Shun Li had begun to wonder if this was a game with Hong. Would he let the iron bars rise one of these days and laugh as the mother bear destroyed her?

I am a barracuda, Shun Li told herself. I swim among larger, more dangerous predators, but I, too, am dangerous and capable of battle.

She knew it was a vain thought. What could a barracuda do to a killer whale? The answer was: absolutely nothing.

No. A barracuda could gnaw the killer whale’s flukes. But what good would that do the barracuda?

The trick, she supposed, was swimming away fast enough if a killer whale chased her. She could swim toward a monstrous great white shark and dart aside as the two creatures fought for supremacy.

She had come to this conclusion yesterday for a specific reason. Chairman Hong continued to question her about Police Minister Xiao. Hong wanted to know all kinds of things: the Police Minister’s habits, his various visits, his comments, his work orders, the way Xiao treated her. Hong had listened with avid interest as she’d told him how Xiao had once slapped her across the face. The Chairman seemed to have forgotten that he’d witnessed the incident himself.

“Indeed,” the Chairman had said. “How very interesting. I wonder if Xiao would like it if I slapped him across the face.”

Shun Li didn’t think so. What troubled her with all these questions was Hong’s motive. The Chairman relied upon East Lightning as part of his power base. He needed the secret police in order to corral the generals, the Army. Had Hong come to fear Xiao? She could understand that. The Police Minister was a crocodile, an emotionless beast with hidden thoughts and likely a hidden agenda.

“Stop,” the operative on her left said.

Shun Li stopped before the Police Minister’s ornate entrance.

The East Lightning operative knocked. Twenty second later, a small red light winked above the door.

“You may enter,” the operative told Shun Li.

They had of course divested her of her gun. She touched the cold bronze latch and twisted. Nothing squeaked. Everything was well oiled. As she walked through, the door shut behind her. One of the operatives must have closed it.

Across the spacious room, Police Minister Xiao stared out of a wall of windows. He had his hands clasped behind his back.

Should I approach? Should I announce myself? What am I supposed to do?

Shun Li did none of those things. She waited nervously, disliking this game playing. What was the purpose of it? He’d pressed a switch to cause the red light to shine. He knew she was here.

Finally, he turned. It was impossible to tell where he stared due to the ceiling lights shining off his thick lenses. Xiao seemed like a robot then. He seemed inhuman. At that moment, Shun Li believed she knew whom to trust, and it wasn’t the Police Minister.

No, no, don’t make up your mind so quickly. You must survive, not attempt to fight these stronger creatures.

“Guardian Inspector,” he said in his emotionless voice. “This is a surprise. Usually, you are too busy to report to me: your superior. You are too busy hobnobbing with the Chairman to see the lowly likes of me.”

Shun Li had no idea what to say concerning that. So she continued to wait while standing at attention.

“Please, come, sit down so we may chat,” Xiao said.

Shun Li strode across the chamber and sat in the nearest chair, sitting upright.

“Are you comfortable?” Xiao asked.

“Yes, Police Minister.”

“No,” he said. “I do not want you to be so formal. You must relax. You are worthy of the Chairman’s time and I must now take that into consideration.”

Xiao moved to his desk, sitting, folding his hands on the top. He attempted a smile. It appeared false.

“Can you elaborate on your visits?” he asked.

“Certainly, sir,” she said. “The Chairman gave me a polar bear cub.”

“How fortunate for you,” Xiao said.

She dipped her head to acknowledge the statement.

“I imagine the Chairman was delighted with your work discovering the Behemoth Manufacturing Plant,” he said.

She nodded.

“You house your cub at his mansion?” Xiao asked.

“Yes sir.”

“And do you visit with the Chairman sometimes?”

“For short periods, sir. Have I done wrong doing this?”

“Guardian Inspector, you surprise me. How can you do wrong visiting with the Great Leader? That is preposterous. Tell me, what do the two of you talk about.”

“Polar bears.”

“And?”

Fear squeezed Shun Li’s chest. She didn’t know the right answer. Did Hong and Xiao speak together about her? Was this a test? She decided the Police Minister was acting much too formally for this to be a test.

“Sir,” she said, “at times the Chairman asks about you.”

“Does he indeed? How flattering,” Xiao said. The man attempted another of his false smiles. “What does the Chairman wish to know about me?”

Shun Li told him because she feared he already knew the answer. Xiao was too much like a robot, a crocodile with a nasty appetite and secretive ways not to know.

As she spoke, Xiao watched her carefully. There was no expression on his wooden features to give a hint to his feelings.

“I will ask you one question, Guardian Inspector. I expect nothing but the truth. Do you understand me?”

“I do, sir.”

“Yes,” he said, staring through his thick lenses at her. “I believe you do, which is good for you. Does the Chairman ask these things because he fears me or because he wishes to dispose of me in some nefarious way?”

Shun Li’s heart began to thud. This was a terrible question. It would make her choose sides. She didn’t want to choose, she wanted to be able to skip whichever way would let her survive.

“Police Minister, I believe the Chairman fears you.”

Xiao smiled. It was a cruel thing.

Shun Li waited to hear him tell her she was lying. He didn’t. Instead, he surprised her by saying:

“The Chairman plays a dangerous game, Guardian Inspector. He needs me, but that is because he makes serious blunders. I have built a careful web around him. It protects his Lion Guards from harm. It is good that I have security operatives in the Chairman’s home. You will now add to their security work as you begin to study the exact layout of the estate and the strength of his personal security. Am I making myself clear?”

Yes. That you’re lying to me. Why would you need to know these things if you already had people there? I am your first and only operative in the Chairman’s country estate.

Shun said aloud. “You wish to provide the ultimate security for the Chairman’s safety and ask that I aid East Lightning in that.”

“Precisely,” Xiao said. “You have divined my thoughts perfectly.”

Shun Li’s eyes felt hot, as if smoke would drift out of her pupils. What intrigue did Xiao play at? Could he believe he would keep his seat of power if Hong died? Or was Xiao thinking the unthinkable: of reaching for supreme power himself?

If she could have, Shun Li would have gladly gone back to North America. These stakes were too high for her. But she was here now and would have to swim with these deadly creatures as best as she could.