log roof over the Abrams. He heard the familiar rattle-squeal-clank of Abrams tanks. To Stan’s amazement, Benson’s M1A3s moved out of their bombardment position. The tanks went to take their spots around the highway, giving them a good field of fire. It was crazy, but under the circumstances, it was heroic.
“Ignorance is bliss,” Stan whispered.
He glanced around at soldiers in their foxholes who had popped up to look. They stared wide-eyed at Benson’s massed Abrams. Then soldiers began to cheer.
“Well, would you look at that,” said Stan.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Jose asked.
Taking out his binoculars, Stan peered down the long slope. Those were Marauders, and they were charging at high speed.
“Why aren’t they using smoke to shield them?” Jose shouted out of the tank.
Stan had no idea, unless maybe the Chinese troops had heard about what their jetpack brothers had done. Maybe even as it panicked the American side, it had bolstered the Chinese. Maybe the Chinese figured they were simply going to overrun the Americans today.
American 120mm guns traversed, and Benson’s Abrams opened up, sending their long-distance Sabot rounds shrieking at the enemy.
“Hit!” shouted Stan. “They’re hitting Marauders.” Stan found himself grinning. He didn’t care anymore if Benson was one arrogant prick of a tanker. If the man could shoot Chinese like fish in a barrel, that was just fine with him. “Mighty fine,” Stan said with a laugh.
From the trenches and foxholes, U.S. Army soldiers, National Guardsmen and Militiamen cheered wildly.
Then the Marauders began firing. A shell slammed into an Abrams. The tank blew up. Another Chinese shell bounced off an American tank, just as the American tanks fired again. It was a glorious sight, and it poured massed fire down at the Chinese. It also destroyed the Marauders.
“You’d better button up,” said Jose. “After that, the Chinese will likely start another bombardment.”
Stan thought likewise. Then he froze. He focused his binoculars on three T-66s. Dropping the binoculars, he picked up his receiver and shouted to Benson’s Abrams, “Get behind something, a boulder, dirt—hide!” he shouted to Benson’s tankers.
Instead of doing anything so sensible, the M1A3 Abrams revved up and began to move down the long slope toward the giant Chinese tanks.
To Stan, it seemed as if a hush descended on the battlefield. Soldiers waited. They watched. Stan couldn’t believe that Benson was really that arrogant. How could the major dare charge the tri-turreted tanks?
American tanks skidded to a halt, and their cannons boomed. Shells roared down-slope and smashed against the first T-66. Smoke billowed around the monster.
“He’s going to learn now,” said Jose.
The Abrams revved and moved as Chinese shells screamed at them. An American tank blew up. Then the smoke cleared from the first T-66. Stan expected to see an unhurt monster. Instead, incredibly, the Chinese tank lay on its side, destroyed.
“What the heck?” Stan whispered.
Another volley roared from American cannons, and another T-66 blew apart under a hammering hail of massed fire.
“He’s killed two T-66s,” Jose said in awe.
The third Chinese monster fired its three guns. WHAM! WHAM! Two of Benson’s Abrams flew apart, one in a ball of fire. The remaining tanks fired back, and the third T-66 was destroyed.
“He did it,” Stan said.
“And he’s advancing on them!” Jose shouted. “He’s attacking the enemy.” Jose whirled around in his seat. “We have to help him. Let’s hit them now, Professor. Let’s drive these Chinese out of Alaska.”
It took Stan a moment. Then he gave the order, deciding they had to attack while they had the chance.
At that moment, Chinese helicopters rose into sight. There were a mass of them. They launched ATGMs at Benson’s tanks.
The massed M1A3s put up a hail of machine gun fire. From behind the trenches, American SAMs launched. Missiles, 25mm chaingun-fire and lead filled the air. Helicopters exploded, as did big Abrams tanks. Black smoke poured from other helicopters as they veered away. Abrams tanks raced in various directions. They used the terrain to try to duck out of sight of the remaining helicopters. It was confusion for a time, chaos. Once the last helicopter left the battlefield, more T-66s appeared. There were six this time, double the number as previously.
Benson’s Abrams no longer fired in union, and now the big Chinese guns boomed. It was a bloodbath as the two sides continued to hammer at each other.
Brigadier General Hector Ramos leaned his elbows on the outer hatch of his nineteen-ton Stryker. Behind him on Highway Nine were the remnants of the 1st Stryker Brigade and his Militiamen. All his combat vehicles, including the Humvees, had scorch marks or holes. Ammo was low. Soldiers were exhausted. Before him at the Junction were the sounds of battle and the grim silhouettes of one hundred ton tanks. Behind him on Highway Nine came the Chinese.
“What do we do, sir?” asked Major Philips. “We’re caught between two forces.”
Ramos stared at the Junction. He’d heard Philips by radio. The fight was almost over at the crossing. The National Guard and Army grunts…it was amazing they’d held out so long. A small trench line had been dug nine miles away on Highway One. It was supposed to be the new holding position. The way things looked here, however….
“We could have used those Army Rangers to help stem the tide,” Philips said.
“The Army Rangers and others are fighting the Eagle Teams in the airport,” Ramos said. “Everyone headed toward us has turned around to save Anchorage. They have to knock out those Eagle Teams before more Chinese land there.”
“I know,” Philips said. “You’ve explained it to me. My question is: what do we do now? Our united front is just about smashed, with no reinforcements coming to help save our bacon.”
Ramos scowled at the glowing red haze that was the Junction. He turned and stared down Moose Pass. His brigade and Militiamen had been worn away. He had to save these weary men. He snapped his fingers. He had an idea.
“What miracle are you going to produce today?” Philips asked.
“Not me,” said Ramos. “But there might be one coming.”
“What do we do?”
Ramos pointed where the enemy T-66s roamed. “We roar through the Junction. The miracle lies there, with two enemy forces trying to use the same highway. It’s called a traffic jam. The Junction is a gauntlet now, and we’re going to lose men and vehicles. But in that direction lays our hope. Are you ready?”
“Give the order, sir.”
“That’s it!” shouted Jose. “We’re down to four shells.”
Stan had circles around his eyes and the inside of the Abrams smelled like gunpowder. Outside the tank was bloody snow, shell-holes, corpses, burning Marauders, burning IFVs, Bradleys, an obliterated M1A2 and too many destroyed M1A3s. There were also seven wrecked T-66s. Some had lost treads; others were smoking hulks. A few had engine failures and they had been swarmed and destroyed.
“Go, Hank,” Stan said. “Just go.”
The big tank lurched. A roar sounded. An enemy shell screamed past, but it missed.
“Faster!” shouted Stan.
At that moment, Strykers appeared from nowhere. Their M2 Brownings and the auto-grenade launchers added to the mayhem. They roared down Highway One. Humvees tried to do the same trick. Half of them exploded, flipped or the drivers pitched forward, instant corpses. It was another bloodbath, with Chinese vehicles and men firing into the cauldron.
Stan’s tanks were the rearguard. They fired. The machine guns blazed, and the last Americans bolted from the battlefield. Despite Major Benson’s initial successes, it had been a rout.
This had happened before, but reinforcements had always been busying setting up another line of defense in
