When he approached them, the partisans didn’t speak much to Paul or Romo. They had lost three older men, who had been firing captured Chinese machine guns at the hovertanks. Their looks accused him, as if to say, “Why can’t you defeat these invaders? Why are you leaving it to us to do your dirty work?”
It was a good question, even if it was unspoken. Paul thought about it during the ride back to SOCOM HQ, Army Group Washington.
This was a bitch of a war.
Are we winning or losing? And when will we know?
Paul shrugged as he sat at the door of the helo. The snowy ground rushed past one hundred feet below. Someone would tell him when America had won. Until then, he’d keep fighting. What else could he do?
Corporal Jake Higgins threw up his hood. It was bitterly cold this morning in the trench. He slapped his gloved hands together, rubbing them. When he was finished with the exercise, he used his teeth and pulled off the right glove. Using his finger, he tapped a computer scroll.
It was a tech gift from their neighboring Mexico Home Army battalion. Really, the battalion was down to a platoon in strength after the bitter weeks of defending Greater Denver. The Home Army Mexicans were a tough group, excellent soldiers.
The scroll was linked to an armored video camera at the top of the trench. It beat using a periscope, which is what they had been using until this nifty little device.
Jake scanned the blasted cityscape. Only a few skeletal buildings remained. Mostly, he saw was snowy rubble and frozen body-parts of Chinese and Americans alike. Artillery shells had turned over the terrain a thousand different times these past weeks.
He recalled the first week of battle. What a difference. Only a few of those Militiamen still lived. He wore Chinese body armor. Everyone did, including the Lieutenant.
Oh-oh, what was this? Jake spied movement on his scroll. “Goose,” he said.
Goose poked his head out of a hole in the side of the trench. The man was gaunt and dirty. They all were. Goose had the far-off stare in his eyes. They all had that too, including the Lieutenant.
“What’s up?” Goose asked.
Jake pointed toward the enemy line.
“I thought it was your turn,” Goose said.
Jake shook his head.
Goose crawled out of the small cave. He used the steps, climbing up to the machine gun platform.
“They’re getting clever,” Jake said. “It’s a robot. I’ve never seen one like this. Mark seven-three-seven.”
Goose checked his tablet, nodding as he tucked the device away in a cavity in his body armor. He exhaled, blowing out white steam. Then he grabbed the butterfly controls and surged upward.
Jake watched on the computer scroll as the heavy machine gun chattered hard. Bullets whizzed across no-man’s-land, hammering at the target. The small, turtle-like robot blew out metal parts. A gun appeared from its turret, but he steel-jacketed .50 caliber bullets didn’t give the Chinese robot time to fire. The robot scout stopped, frozen in time.
“Down!” shouted Jake.
Goose ducked, moving the machine gun mount down with him.
Seconds later, the hiss of enemy bullets came from overhead.
“Let’s move,” Jake said.
They ran along the trench with their shoulders hunched. Enemy mortar shells landed, exploding ice, snow and dirt. Particles trickled into the trench.
“You’re welcome,” Jake muttered to no one in particular, with his back now pressed against the freezing dirt wall.
“When is this going to end?” Goose asked.
“You’re one to talk,” Jake said. “You’re a protester. You got to prove you love your country by bleeding to death in the snow.”
Neither said a word afterward. They endured, as everyone in the pocket waited for the end. The big question was how. Would they freeze to death when the wood ran out? Or would they starve to death? If it became too much suspense, one could climb up into no-man’s-land. Many had. That would end the game quickly.
At this point in the siege, all the quitters were long gone, dead or captured. The hardened survivors waited, inurned to terrible punishment and deprivation.
Commander Bao of MC ABM #3 scowled so fiercely his eyes had almost disappeared between two slits. The angry face was not due to the orders to move out. He was sick of the city siege and sick of using his great laser to blast strongpoints. The scowl was not because of the cold weather that refused to let up.
No, he made the terrible face because his ulcer hurt abominably. He was out of the soothing bottle. He’d drunk the last of it yesterday and the quartermaster said there wouldn’t be another consignment for some time. The Americans had sunk the supply ship that carried more.
Therefore, Bao was in agony as he sat in the giant tractor cab that pulled the three segments of his Mobile Canopy ABM. He looked out the window, but hardly saw a thing. The sun shone, so his lack of sight wasn’t due to falling snow. He hardly saw because the ulcer pain was beginning to overmaster him.
Bao opened his mouth, panting silently.
The driver must have noticed. “Is something wrong, Commander?” the man asked, sounding worried.
Bao shook his head. He didn’t want to speak and let the man hear the pain in his voice. He put his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. He wanted the aching to stop, but he couldn’t let himself think about it. He had a great task to perform. Marshal Liang himself had spoken to all the MC ABM commanders via computer screen.
Bao understood how important his next fight would be. China had the T-66 tank, and the Americans had trumped it with the Behemoth. Now Marshal Liang wished to trump the American marvel with one of Chinese’s latest technological inventions.
As Bao panted silently, he realized that he hadn’t trained in tank tactics. None of the MC ABM commanders had. This was a makeshift use of a great air-defense laser.
We used our lasers in Denver and it gave the city to the Army. Now we must deliver our Army from a surprise attack.
Bao realized his mother must have seen this moment long ago in her dreams. Why else had she always told him to do his best? The fate of the great invasion—Liang had told them—rested on the coming fight. The lasers must defeat the rail-guns.
Shutting his eyes, Bao listened to his stomach grumble. He wanted something to eat. He always did when he became nervous. But if he ate, his ulcer would only become worse. No. He must fast or he must find some milk to drink. Unfortunately, he hated the taste of milk. He needed ulcer medicine. Why did the American submarines have to sink that supply ship?
Concentrate, Bao. You still have to fix several critical problems before the fight.
There were nine operational MC ABMs trundling toward the ambush positions. According to Marshal Liang, eighteen Behemoths converged toward Denver. Therefore, each MC ABM needed to destroy two of the American super-tanks. Of course, Liang had told them he would help even the odds with a fierce air attack at precisely the right moment.
You’re not concentrating on the right thing, Bao.
MC ABM #3 needed new laser coils, and fresh coolant in bin-washer seven. He needed to make sure that each was repaired before the coming battle. All the MC ABMs had beamed often during the siege. The endless laser use meant deterioration in the high-tech equipment. Yes, he needed to recalibrate the mirrors as well. This would be a precision battle, as the MC ABMs needed to engage the Behemoths at the farthest distance possible.
How hot a ray did they need in order to burn through a Behemoth’s plate? How long would he have to keep the laser on target to destroy the heavily-armored tank. An enemy missile or aircraft had tinfoil armor compared to the approaching land-monsters.