“What’s that, Captain?”
Jose Garcia ambled up to stand beside him. It was colder here under the pines. The short gunner with his green scarf wound around his nearly nonexistent neck was also their tech and their best mechanic. Keeping their tank running was a twenty-four hour maintenance chore.
“What do you think?” asked Stan, as he indicated the road below.
Jose squatted on his thick hams. He dug through the snow until he picked up a pine needle and sucked on it like a toothpick. Nodding, he stood up, dusting his hands together so snow fell.
Four hundred yards away and ninety degrees from them—the curve of the highway did that—was the American strongpoint. Soldiers waited in foxholes and built-up points. At the top of the higher slopes waited recoilless gunners, recently sent there to reinforce the ATGM-teams.
Stan perked up. He took out his binoculars. In the distance, he spotted a Marauder tank.
The newer Chinese vehicles were at least a generation ahead of what America possessed up here. Earlier, Stan had checked the specs on the Chinese light tanks. The Marauder in the distance was the size of a regular Ford sedan. It had advanced multi-flex Tai armor and a130mm un-turreted cannon. That meant it only had one hundred and twenty degrees traverse. Combined with attack choppers, the Marauders were the extent of the Chi-Nav heavy vehicle power.
“We’re too few to hold long against a major attack,” said Jose, “but you already know that.”
Stan lowered his binoculars. “We’re trying to buy time for our side.”
Jose squinted one eye at him, as everyone who’d had a car or truck serviced in Jose’s shop would have recognize as his trademark “thinking” look. “Do you believe we can win?”
“You mean this battle or the war?”
“Let’s start with the battle.”
“We’re sure going to find out,” said Stan, trying to pump enthusiasm into his voice.
Jose shook his head. “That’s not what I want to hear. When this is over, I want to go home to my wife and kids. Do you think we’ll still have wives and kids afterward?”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
Jose moved his “toothpick” to the other side of his mouth. “You know, Professor, sometimes you’re too honest. How about you tell me something good.”
“We’re going to kick their butts.”
Jose nodded.
Stan took out a small computer-pad and brought up a video image of a Chinese IFV, showing it to Jose. Each had four 30mm auto-cannons and a Hung missile-tube for anti-air. The tracked vehicle carried six infantrymen inside, had half the armor of a Chinese main battle tank and moved fast with its powerful rotary engine. With that engine, the IFV had worked up and down the slopes that abounded in the peninsula. That had turned out to be a critical feature of the Chinese attack.
“We can use HEAT rounds on these,” said Stan.
HEAT meant High Explosive Anti-Tank. Those shells hit the enemy skin and exploded, driving a pencil-thin jet of metal into the target at over twenty times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, composite armor over time had proven superior to HEAT shells. A HEAT shell should destroy an IFV, but Stan had his doubts concerning the Marauders. Their HEAT shells would likely bounce off any Chinese main battle tank. For the Marauders and heavier tanks, Stan would use the Sabot rounds.
Jose squinted at the video IFV bouncing over the ground. “They’re fast,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Stan, slapping his chest, “but we’re the National Guard.”
Jose adjusted his scarf. His wife had knitted it for him long ago. He considered it his good luck charm. “We are that,” he said.
“We’re the
“They’re the best tanks in the world.”
Stan knew that wasn’t true, but he said, “The very best. This spot, it’s perfect. It will buy our side days.”
“Perfect, huh?”
“Yes,” said Stan, “perfect.”
Jose cracked his knuckles. He still had black grease under his fingernails. He always did. “Good. As long as we can win, I’m good.” He frowned. “Look out over there,” he said, pointing far down the highway.
Stan swallowed nervously as he grabbed his binoculars. Those were tracked self-propelled guns—Chinese artillery. The data-net master sergeant had told him earlier they were 200mm and fired rocket-assisted shells. The show was about to begin.
-12-
Alaskan Nightmare
Han protested. “Please, I can do this without injections.”
“We have our orders, Captain.”
“No! Wait,” said Han. He sat in a pit, wearing twitch gloves and a VR helmet. He loathed the idea of anyone using drugs to alter his mind again.
Since the King of Heaven missiles and the Chinese victory in Low Earth Orbit, the Nexus Center had many trained operators with little to do. A war directive from Minister Jian Hong had released half the Space Service’s controllers to help on the Alaskan battlefield. There had been a four hundred percent increase in drones launched by the invasion fleet and an overload on the Navy’s limited number of remote controllers.
A tall tech now swabbed Han’s arm and jabbed a needle into his flesh, injecting him with S-15. It had an almost instantaneous and disorientating effect.
“No,” Han moaned. “Why?”
“You perform your task for the honor of China,” the tech said.
“I love China,” Han said reflexively.
“We know. Now relax. You’re about to switch to a Z4 Recon Drone.”
Han licked his lips. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this anymore, not if they were going to inject him with drugs. It was regular Navy procedure apparently, and the Space Service was complying with their regulations.
“Engage helmet…now,” said a tech.
“Oh,” said Han. Within his helmet appeared a snowy panorama of mountains, pines and marching men. The soldiers were below as if he were a watching eagle. He heard a flight operator from the fleet giving him instructions as a grid map appeared on his helmet’s visor.
“You must investigate grid D-8,” the flight operator said.
“Acknowledged,” said Han, as he twitched his gloves.
Soon, he approached the American position. It blocked the main highway with two guardian hills. Using zoom, he begin pinpointing larger pieces of equipment. Radar-guided artillery would take care of those. Then a warning beep alerted him of an enemy lock-on. A shock made him flinch, and Captain Han shouted in pain.
“You fool,” someone said. The disembodied voice sounded like the shorter technician. “You set the punishment shock too high. Quickly, lower the setting or you’ll render this controller unconscious, too.”
“What’s going on?” asked Han. The warning light flashed again, and another shock ran through him.
“Quickly,” the disembodied voice said. It sounded like the voice was talking to him, to Han. “You must engage your EW pods.”
Han twitched his gloves, remembering his instructions. In Alaska, a Wyvern missile streaked up at his drone. It was then Han saw enemy vehicles hiding under some pines. He twitched, and he launched a decoy. The Wyvern veered from the drone and destroyed the decoy emitter. The shockwave made his drone wobble, which made the
