“What’s the problem?” Wang asked.
“HQ says Behemoth tanks are out there,” the specialist said.
It took Wang a moment to decipher what that meant. “The Behemoths from California?” he asked.
The radar specialist nodded. “The general has ordered us to attack.”
Once more, Wang grinned. The general always ordered them to attack. So far, except for a few bitter fights, they had overrun everyone brave enough to face the T-66s.
“The general said this is the perfect condition to take on those beasts,” the specialists said. “They are fancy, long-range fighters who fear to come face to face with us.”
“Do you have coordinates for the Americans?” Wang asked.
The specialist handed him a paper with scribbles on it.
Wang studied the paper a moment. “It’s time to wake up!” he shouted to the others. “Eat your favorite food and relive yourself. We’re racing to kill these American heroes.”
“Heroes?” the Soldier Rank driver asked.
“They dare to face us in the open,” Wang said. “The last American heroes to do that are all dead or in the POW cages.”
“These are the Behemoths,” the driver said.
Behind his woolen mask, Wang sneered. “They can’t be that good, or the Americans would have used the Behemoths by now. These Americans can never get it right. The Behemoths are long-range fighters and now we’re facing them in a blizzard. That’s the right weather for us.”
“If only our heater worked,” the driver complained.
“No malingering in my tank,” Wang said. “I want to personally destroy two of these giant tanks. That will gain us a prize from the General. And you know what I’ll ask for?”
“That they fix our third turret?” the radar specialist asked.
“No!” Wang shouted. “That the mechanics fix our heater. That’s why we’re fighting today: for a new heater.”
The crew glanced at each other and began to nod.
“Let’s kill these Behemoths,” Wang said.
The crew cheered.
Stan didn’t do anything fancy. This was the Great Plains. It was flat terrain. He spread out his eighteen Behemoths in a long line.
He climbed out the hatch. He could barely make out the Behemoths on either side of him. The howling had stopped, so he heard the rattle and clank of the treads. Around him, the snow fell with great big flakes.
“Stan!” Jose shouted from within the compartment.
Stan shut the hatch and sat in his commander’s chair. Despite the magnetic hydraulics, the great vehicle lurched as it lumbered across a dip in the terrain.
“What’s all the shouting about?” Stan asked.
“Fred Larch’s Bradleys have T-66s on their radar,” Jose said. “He’s pretty nervous exposed out in the front like that. If the snow clears, he’s dead. He said he doesn’t t know how long he’ll be able to keep his location.”
Stan began tapping the information onto the various screens. This fight was going to be by radar. Visuals and thermals would be better, but in this weather, one had to take what he could get. Picking up his microphone, he began giving orders to the various crews.
In less than two minutes, the Behemoths were ready for battle.
“Here we go,” Stan said to his own crew. “I don’t know how the falling snow will affect our penetrators, but we’re about to find out. Fortunately, the wind has mostly died down.”
The engine revved to provide extra power. They would need every volt to supply the energy to fire the rail-gun.
Four and a half miles away, the lead elements of the Pan-Asian Alliance 14th Division came into Fred Larch’s Bradleys’ radar range.
Stan picked up his microphone to speak to all the Behemoth commanders. “Those are T-66s, gentlemen. If we knock them out—these two armored divisions—the Chinese don’t have anything else near that can possibly face us.”
Stan nodded to the gunner. The man fed the Bradley-gained data into the targeting AI.
“Fire,” Stan said softly.
A fierce surge shook the tank as the penetrator left the cannon three times faster than a speeding bullet. It burned through the air at Mach 10, a lethal round aimed at a distant, tri-turreted tank.
Stan watched his screen, watching by radar. The round hit the T-66. The one hundred ton tank stopped dead in its tracks. Slowly, it toppled onto its right side. That’s what he wanted to see. They could hit the enemy in this weather—beautiful.
“Fire at will,” Stan said into his microphone.
In the heavily falling snow, the eighteen Behemoth tanks—the ones spread out in a line—began to do exactly that.
First Rank Wang’s eyes were huge and staring in his ski mask. Like a frightened gopher, he had his head outside the hatch of his T-66. Snow fell around him in big flakes, wet and heavy. Through the dampening snow, he heard another sickening clang. It was like a devil beating a beastly gong, like evil thunder. Something unseen exploded mightily. A second later, he witnessed the craziest, most surreal thing. It appeared as a hazy shape first. Then Wang realized what he saw: a turret doing cartwheels before his tank, rolling and rolling. It pin-wheeled back into the falling snow and became hazy again and then it disappeared. A moment later, he heard a great thud on the frozen ground.
Wang had never seen something like that at close range. The Behemoths—the Americans monsters—were living up to their terrible legend.
“Fire!” Wang shouted.
“I don’t have a target,” the gunner shouted up.
“Fire anyway!” Wang roared.
He hated the waiting. There was flash of something to his right. He spied a burn of light through the falling snow. The burning thing hissed overhead. He waited, but there wasn’t a clang to tell him this enemy round had hit.
Was that for us? Have they targeted my T-66?
For the first time during the war, First Rank Wang wanted to flee the battleground.
“First Rank!” the radar specialist shouted. “There are…American Bradleys to our left.”
“Turn the cannons on them!” Wang screamed. “We must hit back. We must—”
Wang heard a shriek of noise. It sounded like death calling. Then a shock of tremendous force struck the tank. Wang’s eyes opened even wider than earlier. He felt the heat first. Then a shock wave and then a sensation like fire blew him out of the turret. He flew into the air, and he had the rare privilege of seeing his tank explode beneath him. Flames belched from the cannons. One tongue of fire flickered wildly. He knew those didn’t come because they shot at someone. No, they were pure flames because of the destruction of his tank and crew inside the compartments.
The Americans are finally fighting back. He had time to think that as he flew through the air. Then he became aware of something wrong with his legs. He looked down and saw that he lacked trousers. They had burned off. He tumbled down and struck the frozen ground hard enough to snap his neck.
The great Chinese invasion of the United States of America ended that moment for First Rank Wang. He had known months of victory and months of advance. Now, he was dead, just another corpse in the falling snow.
Four days after the start of what everyone now realized was an American offensive, Marshal Liang had lost his icy calm, his legendary steadiness. He did not pace, even though he itched to walk up and down in his study. He could control that urge. The giveaway was a tic in his left eye. It twitched from time to time. He could do nothing to stop it, and it shamed him.
He stood with General Ping around a computer map. Outside the closed door, they heard officers arguing in the command center. Ping glanced at him too much lately, but Liang refused to say anything about it. Instead, he concentrated on the map, trying to derive an insight that would allow him to deal with the new situation constructively.