Tzu did the same thing again, dropping another missile.
“Captain!” the bomb specialist shouted. He monitored the Heron’s defensive gear.
Tzu looked back at the man.
“Americans missiles—”
The bomb specialist never had a chance to finish his sentence. A flock of anti-air missiles arrived from the Jefferson MBTs nearest the Herons.
An anti-air missile struck the left side, hitting the planet at the joint between the fuselage and wing. The warhead ignited, tearing the wing from the plane and creating a huge hole.
Captain Tzu looked through the opening. Then the Heron turned on its wounded side and began to plunge earthward. Tzu’s seatbelt held him in place. It felt like a hot poker had thrust through his gut. The fuselage began to spin faster and faster. He had been right about the law of averages. One of these times, the Americans would hit and destroy his bomber.
Centrifugal force rendered Tzu unconscious seconds before the Heron plowed into the pristine snow and exploded in a fiery ball of destruction.
Commander Bao clamped his hands to his headphones/mufflers. The whine of the MPT had risen to another pitch of unbearable. A hazy fume of smoke drifted through the main compartment.
The laser had operated much longer than it ever had during the Siege of Denver. Things were going wrong with the turbine and the laser coils had begun to overheat.
“Destruction!” the targeting officer said.
“We’ve destroyed two Behemoths,” Bao told the crew. Despite the smoke, the ulcer and the pounding in his head, Bao was proud. He had achieved greatness. He had destroyed two American super-tanks.
“Shut down the turbine,” he said. “We’re moving out.”
The targeting officer cast him a sharp glance. Other crewmembers shot him a look of relief.
“Is something wrong?” Bao asked the targeting officer.
The unbearable whine lessened and then went off altogether.
Bao shoulder muscles loosened.
“We haven’t received orders to move,” the targeting officer said. “We—”
“Ballistic missiles!” a crewmember shouted.
Bao snapped to his screens. Ah, the Americans attacked with missiles.
“Start up the turbine,” he said.
The turbine chief tapped the switch. He did it again because nothing appeared to happen the first time.
“Start it up now,” Bao said.
The man swiveled toward him. “It won’t start, Commander. It’s overheated.”
“Use override,” Bao said.
The man typed on his screen and began shaking his head. “We must have burned out the override system,” the man said.
Bao licked his lips nervously.
“You shouldn’t have shut off the turbine,” the targeting officer said.
Bao gave the man a withering glance. Who was he to give him a reprimand?
“Commander Bao,” his superior officer said from a screen. “Do you see the incoming ballistic missiles?”
“The turbine has overheated and won’t come back online,” Bao said.
The superior blinked at him. “You must fire at them.”
“I cannot,” Bao said. “I do wish to report two Behemoth kills, however.”
“Start your turbine!” the superior shouted.
Commander Bao shook his head. “It is inoperative. I suggest I move back out of range for repairs.”
The superior stared at him a full three seconds. “Yes!” he shouted. “Do it.”
Bao didn’t glance at the targeting officer. That would seem too much like gloating. Instead, he informed the tractor driver to engage his vehicle’s drive system and take them down behind this hill.
His part in the battle was over.
Colonel Higgins wanted to weep. He’d lost seven Behemoths so far and knocked out only two MC ABMs.
The laser vehicles kept pouring fire, and then he lost the eighth tank.
Should I retreat? No. It’s be too late for that. All I can do is charge in a zigzag. “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” he muttered to himself.
This was a regiment, though, not a brigade, and it wasn’t light but had the heaviest super-tanks ever built. Were the Behemoths already obsolete?
“Stan—I mean Colonel,” Jose said.
Stan looked over at his friend.
“The Chinese have stopped firing at us.”
“Do you know—” Before Stan could finish his question, he stared at McGraw on his third screen.
“I’ve sent ballistic missiles at them, Colonel.”
“What?” Stan asked.
“Didn’t you hear me earlier?”
Stan was too dazed to remember. He’d lost eight Behemoths and only destroyed two enemy laser tanks. This was terrible. Now he knew what it felt like to be a T-66 versus a Behemoth.
“Advance now,” McGraw was saying. “Get closer while they’re focused on the ballistic missiles. I fired the missiles to come in bunches. I want to keep the MC ABMs busy in order to buy you time to get closer.”
“Yes sir, General,” Stan said. He got on the microphone and shouted the orders to the others. He wanted to be Mr. Calm, but he couldn’t do it now. He was too full of adrenaline.
He watched the three screens. The enemy knocked down the ballistic missiles one right after the other. Doing so kept the Chinese lasers and SAM sites busy, though. It brought the surviving Behemoths another kilometer closer.
The enemy had seven MC ABMs left. Actually, it only had five left that could fire. According to his screen, two were pulling out.
“We’re one kilometer closer,” Stan said. “Let’s pour it on now, gentlemen. Let’s kill these invaders and finish the fight.”
The force cannon surged once more. Penetrators flew at Mach 10. The range was still too much for perfect accuracy. It was close enough, however, that the penetrators began to hit with greater frequency, perhaps one shot in ten.
That was more than enough. One after another, the MC ABMs blew up and burned spectacularly. One in particular flew up into the air. Six hundred tons blew fifty feet high before smashing down to the ground. Stan would never know it, but that one had been MC ABM #3.
Commander Bao would never again have to worry about his ulcer. He had been turned into pulped flesh, boiled blood and pulverized bones, disappearing from life and history, a red smear on a hill in Aurora, Colorado.
Two East Lightning operatives marched Guardian Inspector Shun Li toward Xiao’s office in the Police Ministry. They were about to turn into the selected corridor. Before they could, a large old military man with rows of gaudy medals on his chest limped in front of them, coming out of that corridor. An escort walked with the officer.
Shun Li stopped in surprise. One of the operatives behind her didn’t notice in time and bumped against her, propelling her against the old man.
The old military officer caught her, and he peered down into her face, breathing a foul odor.
“Excuse me, please,” Shun Li said.
The old man shoved her away so several of his medals tinkled against each other. He turned, scowling at his escort.
“This way, Marshal,” the escort said in a subservient tone.
As she straightened her uniform, Shun Li had time to notice several things. The escort took the highly decorated marshal down a hall that would lead to the underground garage. The implication was that this Marshal of China hadn’t come through the front doors, but through a hidden route. Shun Li watched them, and she realized that she recognized the man’s limp from TV footage. That was Marshal Gang, the leader of the PAA First Front in California. He had taken over after Marshal Nung had perished against American commandos.