12.7mm machine guns. A small AI inside the tank fired the weapons in real time. As any online gamer would know, the lag from China to Alaska would make precision firing impossible for Han. He supplied the drone’s strategic guidance.
After moments of assessment, Han shouted, “My tank can’t fire its main gun at the ATGMs at the top of the hills!”
The American teams had just launched TOW2 missiles, taking out one of the Marauders. Now American recoilless rifles opened up from the top of the hill.
In the Mukden pit, Han twitched his gloves like mad. His remote-controlled tank reversed, slewed to the slide, and then roared ahead, racing to a burning Marauder. Shells landed around him as a TOW2 missile whooshed past. His AI fired a flechette beehive defender. It sprayed the air with eraser-sized tungsten balls. The beehive was supposed to take out swaths of infantry. Han had instructed the AI to use it to try to take out the TOW2 missiles.
“You must attack the enemy,” a battle operator said.
“Yes, yes,” panted Han.
He used his position behind the two burning Marauders. He clanked forward, fired and dodged back behind the two wrecks for cover. Why wasn’t their artillery firing smoke shells? He needed covering smoke to help hide him until the last moment.
“You must charge the Americans,” said the battle operator. “You are a suicide vehicle.”
“I will survive,” whispered Han. He absolutely dreaded the death-shock.
For thirty seconds no one talked to him. Han remained behind the burning Marauders. In the pit, he twitched his gloves to keep the techs off his back, but he was only communicating with his Marauder’s AI.
“Captain Han!” a man roared in his ear. “You will advance on the Americans or face court-martial and a firing squad afterward.”
Licking his lips, Han moved his remote-controlled tank out of hiding. Chinese IFVs roared past his drone and raced for the slopes. Attack helicopters swarmed overhead, pouring chaingun-fire down on the Americans.
Heaving a deep sigh, Han revved his engine and roared after the IFVs. If he could stay close enough to them, maybe the enemy would target the infantry carriers instead of his Marauder.
The next few minutes proved to be a cauldron of vicious fighting. The Americans held their positions, dying even as they dealt death. Wyvern and Blowdart missiles, TOW2 anti-tank missiles, grenades, bullets and 155mm artillery shells destroyed choppers, IFVs, Marauders and the naval infantry leaping out of the carriers. The naval infantry fought up the slopes and fired their handheld SPET-missiles at the strongpoints. It was the hardest fighting of the war so far.
The 160th Naval Battalion and the two companies of Marauder drone tanks took casualties as the 322nd Naval Infantry Battalion edged closer for their turn at the gap.
“You must break through!” the battlefield operator shouted at Han. “Smash into their rear area—find the command post and obliterate it.”
In the underground center in Mukden, in the controller’s pit, Han guided his drone on Highway One as he moved between the hills. He raced through the gap, with several IFVs clanking behind him.
“Find the CP!” the battle operator said.
“Where?” shouted Han. “Where is it?” Then his AI spotted an American officer behind a boulder. The officer waved his arm, sending reinforcements up the American side of the hill to help their beleaguered brethren on top.
Han revved his engine as the AI fired its 130mm cannon and blew away the boulder. Unsure whether the drone had killed the officer or not, Han charged the area. His camera spotted movement on a rear slope about two hundred meters behind the last American trench. He used zoom, seeing a long barrel and the top of a turret. Quick analysis told him it was a tank, an American Abrams M1A2.
Han swore as he made his sedan-sized Marauder swerve. It upset the AI’s calculations. There was a muzzle flash from the long enemy smoothbore. Something fast zoomed toward Han.
Then Captain Han yelled as his Xing T-29 Marauder burst into flames from a direct hit. Han shouted louder as he received his death-shock. Then he slumped into unconsciousness. For him, the battle was over.
The wind howled around General Shin Nung, hero of the Siberian War. Nine years ago, in 2023, his aggressive armored thrust had captured Yakutsk. He was the present commander of the Cross-Polar Taskforce, ready to win yet another campaign for the Chairman. He was on the Arctic Ocean pack ice, having traveled thousands of kilometers from Ambarchik Base in Eastern Siberia. His Chinese taskforce was headed for Dead Horse, Alaska.
The blasting noise of the blizzard drove like nails into his head so that his eyes continuously pulsed with pain. He wore a heavy parka, with a woolen ski mask protecting his face and with goggles over his tormented eyes. With his thick mittens, he grasped a towline. He pulled himself through the whiteout. The wind continually shoved against him.
The polar blizzard had been howling for days, grounding everything. The blizzard whipped up the powdery snow on the pack ice. It was impossible to see the hundreds of parked vehicles around him.
Nung gripped the towline, dragging himself along. The powdery snow didn’t compress together as he walked over it. Instead, it slid out from under his feet, making this a treacherous endeavor.
He’d been making the rounds between hovertanks, snowtanks, caterpillar-haulers and infantry carriers. This was the advance group. Behind him for hundreds of kilometers were combat engineers building airstrips and creating a polar road. So far, the taskforce had made it halfway from Ambarchik Base to their targeted destination.
Today or tonight—it was always dark—he’d discovered three infantry carrier crews dead from asphyxiation. They hadn’t followed procedures as they heated their stalled vehicles. Such a senseless loss made General Nung frown.
It was maddening. He knew how to achieve victory, but these rules of approach were binding him. It was the wrong way to grab the American oilfields. If High Command had listened to him, the battle for Alaska would already be over.
For Nung, the blizzard slackened as he reached the command caterpillar. Ping was in there. Maybe after witnessing this blizzard, the commissar could understand the situation and see the truth.
Gripping metal, Nung twisted and opened the hatch. Heat poured around him and light bloomed into existence as three men swiveled around in the caterpillar. They wore heavy shirts, but no parkas. One showed anger but quickly changed into obedient acceptance of the opened door.
“Hello, General,” that man said, a data-net lieutenant.
The thinnest man in the caterpillar showed distaste as if he’d eaten a rotten egg. He was Commissar Ping. He was thin and had long fingers like the violinist he was. He had delicate, sensitive features, almost like a girl.
Gripping his shirt collar and shivering, Ping said, “Close the hatch, General. It’s freezing.”
General Nung scowled. The commissar’s mannerisms were effeminate. It angered him every time he realized that this violinist had veto power over every one of his command decisions.
The last of the three was the opposite of Ping. The East Lightning killer seemed like some primate proto- human with crude features and coarse mannerisms. The henchman had eyes like oil, and they never turned away when Nung stared at him. The general found that enraging. Several times, he’d debated shooting the killer in the back and leaving him in the snow. Unfortunately, the brute never left Ping’s side.
As he tore off his ski mask and hood, Nung slammed the hatch shut. It was stiflingly hot in here. There was communication equipment piled on both sides of the caterpillar. It was a drone remote-controlling caterpillar, one of several in the taskforce.
“I found another three crews dead,” Nung said. “This delay is killing us. We need to move, to make the crews work.”
“Move in this nightmare?” asked Ping. “Are you joking, General?”
The commissar’s tone infuriated Nung just as much as the insulting question.
“You’ve heard the signals,” Nung said. “There’s heavy fighting near Anchorage. We need to attack the North
