The last few weeks had been frustrating enough. Army Group A controlled ninety percent of the Front Range Urban Corridor. He had toured the shattered Behemoth Manufacturing Plant in Denver. The plant was smaller than he had envisioned, and there was nothing mass-production about it. He hadn’t sent the specific information on that to Chairman Hong yet because he feared the man’s reaction to the news. It was the one piece of good news, however. It meant the Americans owned fewer Behemoths than he had envisioned. The enemy already had too many of those amazing tanks.
As he thought about the Behemoths, Liang’s left eye quivered. He wanted to clamp a hand over it and make the tic stop. He glanced at Ping, but the general didn’t look up. Did Ping know the orb twitched? Is that why he studiously kept his head down?
Enough! I have more to worry about than a twitching eye.
Army Group A controlled ninety percent of Greater Denver, but the remaining Americans in the pocket still hung on. The few American prisoners were grimy to a man. Every one of them had filthy, worn clothes and gaunt, staring faces. How the remaining soldiers found the energy to keep fighting, Liang didn’t understand. He had finally prevented the American airdrops to them. His fighters and particularly the MC ABMs had made it too costly for the Americans to attempt any more dropping of supplies to the trapped soldiers.
That interdiction had been achieved seven days ago now. The remaining enemy in Denver was like a pack of rats living in the rubble and ruins. He didn’t really care about them now. The cost to take the metropolitan area had been staggering in numbers and time. He had squandered a full month—five and a half weeks actually. Worse, at Hong’s orders, he’d fed an inordinate number of troops into the urban furnace to achieve the victory. And for what: that pathetically small manufacturing plant?
Now, he withdrew vital units from Denver and the surrounding towns. He pulled tanks and hovercraft from Army Group B, which had reached Cheyenne and taken it. Yes, they had taken the city in time for the Americans to attack.
Where have the Americans gotten all these extra soldiers?
He knew part of the answer. It was so galling. Chairman Hong had fallen for a sly European trick.
“The Germans betrayed us,” Liang said.
“That is true,” Ping said. “Yet strategically, I can understand their thinking.”
Liang’s left eye twitched again. Ping could speak calmly. It wasn’t his head on the chopping block. Chairman Hong hadn’t berated him for allowing the catastrophe to occur.
As if I was the one who ordered Army Group A into Denver. But even that misses the point.
“We miscalculated concerning the American reserves,” Liang said. He shook his head. “We needed to crush the Americans at the very beginning. We made them bleed, but we needed to kill their Army. It survived long enough to regroup because of the treacherous mud.”
Ping looked up. He appeared stupefied with the last statement, with his enlarged eyes staring through thick and distorting lenses.
Liang managed a brief smile. Didn’t Ping see? Didn’t the Chief of Staff understand? Am I the only one who knows what this enemy offensive means? It’s the end of our grand adventure. We miscalculated, thinking the Americans a weak and beaten people. That was the real mistake.
“The Brazilians are regrouping,” Ping said. “They’re gathering their best armor divisions for a counterattack. Soon, together with us, they will nip these American penetrations and crush their formations. Afterward, we will resume the offensive.”
“You can say this after the destruction of our two armored divisions?”
“They were a stopgap measure,” Ping said. “We did not yet realize the magnitude of the enemy offensive. Now that we know, we will take the necessary steps to crush them.”
Liang looked away. His Chief of Staff spoke for the recordings now. Had it gone this far then? Where their heads already on the chopping block?
Liang focused on the map. Army Group A was embroiled in Denver and Army Group B engaged in and around Cheyenne. The savage fighting in Denver had whittled down too many divisions, bleeding them white. In Cheyenne and the surrounding territory, the problem was quite different. The Americans facing them pressed forward, keeping up the pressure. Any rearward movement in mass might collapse the entire front. That would bring about a disaster during the middle of a grim American winter.
“Zhen’s Tank Army—” Ping said.
“Yes, we must use the Tank Army,” Liang said, interrupting his Chief of Staff. He would have to withdraw Zhen’s forces from the northern front and rush infantry divisions into their place. He needed to fortify the north front in and around Cheyenne, putting Army Group B on the defensive.
“Here is my quandary,” Liang said. He’d been thinking about the problem for hours already—no, longer, in fact.
The enemy had shattered the South Americans nearest Third Front. Weak Venezuelan corps had fled en masse, a large majority dying on the open snow. The Americans had been merciless. Worse for the Venezuelans, it had been a most disgraceful way to perish.
The loss of those corps had created a large gap in the SAF Front. Field Marshal Sanchez rushed new units there, but the Americans had driven a wide gap between the PAA Third Front and the SAF First Front: it included northeastern Colorado and the bottom, southwestern Nebraska. Through the gap raced an American Tank Army of tremendous hitting power. It swept everything before it, crushing the 14th and 92nd Armor Divisions, two excellent tank formations. They were gone now, destroyed during a snowstorm.
Liang had wanted the two divisions to buy him time. They should have done so. They should have been able to halt the American advance for at least a day or two. Instead, they’d vanished in a hail of unprecedented American firepower. It was simply incredible these two armor divisions were gone. The Behemoths had done it, and the new Jefferson MBT-8s.
One thing he’d learned. The T-66s could match the Jeffersons. They could not face the Behemoths, though. The Behemoth was three times bigger and could fire its shell three times farther. Most of the time, T-66 shells bounced off a Behemoth. The Behemoth shells left smoking holes every time.
Liang had already recalculated. He must hit the flank of this drive—hit where there were no Behemoths. He’d do it with massed hovertanks, the perfect raiding vehicles. The Americans had Behemoths, but they advanced south as if flank protection didn’t matter. It did, and would. He would show them how much. The problem was one of timing.
“My quandary is picking the right time to make a second attack,” Liang told Ping. “Should I wait for the Brazilians and coordinate our strike? If I wait, the Americans might get too far, and they might throw trench-works into place. How long will they drive without bothering with their flanks? Not for long, would be my guess. Now they are mobile and aggressive. Now—or in three days, to be more exact—I can mass Zhen’s Tank Army to engage them. The Brazilians will take longer to get ready. If I fight the Americans alone, I may be allowing the enemy to engage our two forces one at a time instead of smothering them with an overwhelming assault.”
Ping nodded, saying, “It is hard to choose the right decision.”
Liang’s left eye twitched. Damn Ping. The Chief of Staff wasn’t committing. It was a hard decision. This is why they made you a Marshal, Liang. You’re the one who has to decide this. Don’t fob it off onto someone else.