Lon rubbed his groin again. Once he returned to base, he needed to see a doctor.
“Fire!” Jake shouted from the commander’s seat.
For the second time, the mighty engine revved and supplied power to the rail gun. A surge shook the tank. The penetrator roared from the cannon and sped at Mach 10 for the targeted laser vehicle.
Seconds later, with his forehead pressed against the padded gunner’s sight, Chet said, “It’s another miss.” His right hand knuckles tightened around the pistol-grip firing mechanism.
“We’re heating up outside!” the driver shouted.
Jake heard the ominous, bubbling sound of a heavy laser chewing through the frontal armor.
“Go left!” Jake shouted. “Chet! Get ready for another shot.”
The air conditioners hummed as sweat beaded down Jake’s face. It was worse than driving a motorcycle through Death Valley in midsummer. Jake had done that once. He never would again.
The driver worked the controls. One tread spun forward and the other went backward. The great beast of a tank swung to the left. Then both treads churned the spring soil, ripping away flowers and spewing them behind. The laser beam flashed past the tank, no longer eating into the armor.
Almost immediately, the terrible heat lessened as the air conditioners did their work.
Without waiting for Jake’s command, Chet pulled the trigger.
The engine revved to give the power plant enough juice. The surge came and yet another penetrator roared across the distance at Mach 10.
While holding his breath, Jake watched on his screen. The UAV still fed him data.
This round hammered into the MPT trailer of MC ABM number five. With pathetic ease, the penetrator blasted through the hull armor. A microsecond later, a fantastic explosion turned the compartment into a trailer-sized bomb, shedding metal in every direction. That flipped the rest of the linked vehicles.
Unknown to Jake, inside the MC ABM command compartment, a chunk of bulkhead the size of a chair seat decapitated First Rank Lon Lu. Blood gushed before more pieces crushed the body into a smear.
Not all the Behemoths escaped death or killed their targeted laser tank. Two vehicles to the left of Jake’s, a giant tank had a glowing red glacis with two fist-sized burn holes. Clumps of melted drops like lava had already cooled and frozen in place. That Behemoth halted suddenly. A side hatch blew, shooting the metal like a bullet to bounce off the ground a quarter mile away. Flames roared from the compartment—the entire crew had roasted to death.
Despite the kill, and another on the other side of Jake, twelve Behemoths survived the laser tank onslaught. One tank still partly worked, but its engine died with a squeal of metal parts. The battle was over for that Behemoth.
Twelve great American beasts relentlessly continued their trek to Oklahoma City and First Front HQ.
We’re doing it, Jake thought. Aloud he said, “The enemy doesn’t have anything that can stop us now. We’re going to crush them.” He laughed. “We’re making history, gents. It’s possible we’re ending the war right here.”
Police Minister Shun Li watched in horror as real-time footage played upon the left wall. They met on the second floor in the War Room of the Cho En Li Building in Mao Square.
On the wall, a huge MC ABM blew up, the first of many, victims to the hated American Behemoths. The wall showed it alclass="underline" the jagged metal shards sailing through the air, exploding dirt as they hit and pieces of bloody uniforms fluttering in the wind.
Every member of the Ruling Committee watched the destruction, nine ultra-powerful men and women. At the head of the conference table, Chairman Hong folded his hands across his black-suited stomach. He had a small potbelly, but acted today like a calm Buddha, with every emotion under control.
“Marshal Meng wishes to report,” a communications major told them.
“Yes,” Chairman Hong said. “By all means, let us hear the worst.”
Tall Marshal Chao Pin—a sixty-year-old with white hair—gave the Chairman an unreadable glance. A week ago, the old man had eagle eyes of flashing pride. Today, the orbs could have been carved out of glass. His vaunted plan to defang the Americans had failed miserably, leaving him dazed.
A moment later, Marshal Meng’s image appeared on the wall. He looked like a giant talking to pygmies, his head ten times the size of any of their bodies. He had a mole on his right upper lip and another one over his left eyelid. His skin looked wan and slack, and his eyes were haunted.
“I attempted to coordinate the laser tank attack with a flight of bombers,” Meng said in a shaken voice. “American stealth drones in the stratosphere provided pinpoint intel for their newest weapon system, a particle beam tac-vehicle. It’s a new American machine, a tracked platform able to keep up with their deepest penetration units, giving them antiair coverage.”
“You still have several reserves left,” Chao Pin said. “The 34th and 15th Mechanized and the 9th Armor Division—”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Marshal Meng said. His teeth were far too yellow. The wall screen was unkind in its precision details. “The Eighth Corps is too far away from Oklahoma City to affect—”
“No, no,” Chao Pin said. “If you drive into the American flank from the west, you can upset their resupply schedule. We have learned from past battles that the Behemoths devour a massive amount of fuel and need continuous maintenance. If you can destroy the following Jeffersons—”
Something stiffened on Marshal Meng’s face. Shun Li realized it was hope.
“Yes!” Meng said. “With a coordinated Brazilian strike—ladies and gentlemen, if you will permit my temporary absence—”
“Yes,” Chao Pin said, without asking Chairman Hong. “See to it. We will await the outcome.”
As Meng’s image disappeared from the wall, Shun Li cast a sly glance at Chairman Hong. His thumbnails plucked idly a button on his tunic. Clearly, he bided his time.
Nervously, Shun Li licked her lips. She didn’t like this one bit. Early this morning, she had discovered the reality of the East Lightning murder squads. The idea of killing Chinese generals in the forward divisions appalled her. Her people had aided the Americans. If the truth ever got out, the world would blame her. Never mind her name in the history books—she dreaded torture.
Hong has made me his tool. By using my people, he forces me to obey his will, or I will die hideously. No matter which way I turn, I’m doomed.
A mixture of worry and growing battle anger seethed through Paul Kavanagh.
He sat beside the open bay door of a tri-jet-assisted Cherokee helicopter. A dozen sleek machines painted prairie brown and yellow flashed through a surviving enemy antiair belt. This maneuver was risky. High Command was putting all its chips down on the board and rolling the dice. General McGraw obviously sought a strategic victory in one bold stroke, and this was simply another part of it.
Paul swore under his breath.
A Chinese missile streaked into the sky, leaving a dirty trail of fumes. The gunmetal-colored object zeroed in on the helicopter to Paul’s right. In a moment, the missile connected like a fist to the face, and a fiery explosion obliterated the craft. Smoke billowed thickly and parts rained out of the cloud. Something swishing end-over-end burst out of the haze and sped like an arrow at Paul’s helo.
A computer-slaved fifty-caliber machine gun sent tracers at the man-sized length of shrapnel. The bullets missed in a long line of what looked like red sparks.