“My point is this, my old friend,” said Ling, trying not to think about the Vice-Admiral. “We will drive for Anchorage. I do not care about the causalities. We have more than enough men. I am not certain, however, that we will have enough time or enough fuel. Therefore, we will spare nothing now to pour through. If winter comes early here, it could strand us while the enemy gains reinforcements.”
Commodore Yen’s thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Then he spoke about the tanks, revealing his preoccupation. “I had thought you were going to save the Army tanks for the actual storming of Anchorage.”
“I can no longer afford that option. Since we failed to capture Seward’s storage depot, we must reach Anchorage before the real cold descends on us. Once we take the city, then the state will fall to us like a ripe pear.”
Commodore Yen sipped his
“I will win,” agreed Ling, “
The two clinked glasses, drank and listened to the hail battering the great ship.
The National Guard armor company left Anchorage with Stan Higgins, their modified M1A2s riding piggyback on the Heavy Equipment Transporters. Unfortunately, they never made it to the main line of defense near Tustumena Lake, which had been shattered in a night of deadly combat. Two days of journey brought Stan and his tanks to Highway One before Cooper Landing. The shattered remnants of the western front of the Kenai Command had reached a new defense line. Here, bedraggled Airborne, National Guardsmen and Militiamen—many half-frozen and too many with black toes or frostbitten noses—found themselves formed willy-nilly into ad hoc formations.
Stan knew it was no way to run a defense. Already, however, he understood a hundred historical military incidents better because of what he’d gone through. War was chaos. The actual U.S. military term was “friction,” the physics kind that caused an object to slow down and stop. If you pushed a piano, say, friction made it nearly impossible to move unless it had wheels. If you attempted to move your company of tanks on HETS, friction made it hard to get anywhere. A hauling cable snapped, meaning wasted time as mechanics installed a new one. A tire blew. Time passed as men put on a spare. One of the haulers ran out of gas. They towed it to a gas station. They took the wrong route at Portage, where a massive traffic jam had halted Militiamen trying to get to the battlefield in their battered pickups and sedans. Friction grew the more soldiers and vehicles one attempted to move from A to B.
It was a good thing friction hurt the other side, too. Stan recalled a saying.
The Chinese naval infantry were well-trained and had good morale, at least the ones coming up Highway One did. The Chinese had the element of surprise and more aircraft. The Alaskans knew the terrain better and they had lived with snow and ice all their lives. Most of the Militia and National Guardsmen had hunted or fished in the Kenai Peninsula at least once before.
The Chinese had first landed at Homer. From there by road, it was two hundred and twenty-six miles to Anchorage. In this past week and a half, the Chinese had already traveled half the distance to the city. Historically, that was a tremendous daily advance.
The HETS unloaded the tanks and returned to Anchorage. Later, Stan and his tankers briefly contacted the enemy. The tanks waited in a flattened corral as Stan and his men used the latrines in some old buildings nearby. Bill came sprinting to them. His militiamen had been attached to their company as scouts.
“Chinese infantry!” Bill shouted.
“Where?” asked Stan, alarmed.
Bill unrolled his computer-scroll. “Here,” he said, pointing.
Stan stared at the scroll, and he looked up. The Chinese were on the other side of that hill over there, the hill with the boulders that looked like three giants huddled together. “What are the Chinese doing out here?” he asked.
“There’re some Militiamen outside. They’re exhausted and only half of them have weapons. Their lieutenant said the Chinese have been chasing them for half a day. Stan, they’re terrified of the Chinese.”
“Okay,” said Stan. “We’d better rig a little surprise for them. I still don’t know how those Chinese made it around our lines.”
“There aren’t any lines out there,” said Bill. “According to the lieutenant, it’s a mess.”
“If you’re right, it means these Chinese are on their own. Maybe they got too aggressive. Here’s what we’re going to do….”
Twenty minutes later, using the old buildings for cover, Stan ambushed the Chinese. It turned out there was a platoon of them armed with QBZ-23s and wearing dinylon body-armor. They must have gotten lost and been separated from their battalion. This was simply more friction in action.
The Chinese looked tired, and they came in a bunch toward the buildings. They probably wanted nothing more than a good rest.
Stan ordered anti-personnel canisters. When the bulk of the Chinese platoon was halfway between the hill and the buildings, Stan gave the order.
Hank revved the engine and the tank lumbered out of hiding. So did the other M1A2s. Chinese soldiers hit the ground and began shooting. Jose fired the M256 smoothbore gun and the entire tank shook just as it always did on the firing range. However, this time it rocked Stan more than usual, and the sound of the canister put goosebumps on Stan’s arms. The canister contained hundreds of 9.5mm tungsten balls which spread from the tank’s muzzle like a shotgun blast. The tungsten balls were lethal for two thousand feet, and they mowed down the Chinese, puncturing the body-armor. It was murder as the other tanks opened up.
The lost platoon never had a chance. Then Bill and his Militiamen opened up. The Chinese twisting in the snow—it was an evil sight. Even so, Stan almost hyperventilated as he shouted.
After it was over, he told himself:
The company reached their destination several hours later. A regular Army major strengthened a perimeter several miles west of Cooper Landing. He was the highest-ranking officer in the area.
It seemed like a good place to make a stand. The slush-covered highway ran through the middle of their position. Huge granite slopes to the side of the road funneled attackers straight to them. It would have taken drills to drive foxholes into the stone, so the major had been satisfied putting artillery and mortar spotters behind boulder-strongpoints. It looked precarious on the side of the slopes, but Stan wasn’t going to argue with the man.
Snow-laden pines stood at the top of the slopes or hills. National Guardsmen were up there, stiffened by Regular Army from the 4th Airborne Brigade—“Spartans.” Most wore body-armor. Everyone dug foxholes and firing-pits. They were supposed to protect the ATGM-teams.
ATGM, Anti-Tank Guided Missile, fired from portable launchers. These were old TOW2 launchers, which weighed one hundred and eighty-four pounds. Each missile weighed forty pounds, was shape-charged and more effective at long range than short.
Behind the two granite slopes, Militiamen dug foxholes and trenches under the command of Reserve lieutenants and NCOs, Non-Commissioned Officers. Stan thought the position a good one, as the hills and pines helped protect them from attack choppers—unless the helicopters came straight at them. Two miles back were 155mm artillery tubes. There were some mortar-companies closer than that.
Undoubtedly, the major meant to halt the Chinese here and make them expend artillery shells and short- range missiles trying to dig out the Americans.
The major had made Stan’s tanks the core of his reaction team. As support, Stan had a National Guard
