These were China’s premier tank. These models were better than the ones that had gone into Alaska seven years ago. The Americans—once they had built the greatest weapons. That had been before the Sovereign Debt Depression. After the Alaskan War, America had faced growing debt, secession troubles, sanction damage and the Chinese cyber-attack. Even better, a terrorist nuclear weapon had taken out Silicon Valley, once home to the world’s highest technology. The American research and development had yet to advance as far as the great T-66. Yes, once the Americans had ruled the world’s battlefields with their superior weapons. Now China ruled the battlefields, and tonight Sheng was going to show the has-beens what that meant.
The Americans fled from their hull-down positions, trying to use the dunes as cover for their escape. Sheng shook his head. He wasn’t going to let that happen.
At his orders, the two tanks of his platoon revved to the right. They had brigade UAVs in the sky, spotting for them. He used the computer screens, waiting, watching—
“There!” Sheng shouted. He spied the enemy Abrams, the bastard who had killed one of his tanks. He’d “painted” the Abrams, using a computer-code marker.
“I want all three guns targeted on the painted Abrams,” Sheng said.
The T-66 had three turrets and three guns, which meant a gunner and a loader for each. The main turret was slightly larger than the other two. It held the gunner, loader, Sheng and his radio operator. Each T-66, therefore, had eight crewmembers.
Now the three 175mm tubes aligned on the retreating Abrams.
The enemy tank’s cannon boomed. Sheng witnessed the fact on one of his screens. The sabot round screamed across the distance between them and likely would have hit. The radar on the T-66 tracked it and two 30mm auto-cannons fired, knocking the American round out of the air.
“You cannot defeat us,” Sheng said. “Yes, you are wise to flee, weak American tank.”
Sheng heard the three gunners shout. They were ready.
For a second, he enjoyed the sensation of knowing he was going to kill the American. It was a delicious thing. Then Sheng said, “Fire.”
The front of the one-hundred ton monster seemed to rise in air from the three cannons firing in unison. Three Chinese sabot rounds sped at hyper-velocity, rocket-assigned for greater speed and reach.
First Lieutenant Sheng watched on a thermal-imaging screen.
Sabot rounds hit the Abrams. Giant lava streams spewed out of blown enemy hatches. Those were solid columns of flame climbing into the night air. It meant one of the shells at least must have burned down the blast door to the enemy shell compartment. The American rounds began to cook off and the turret tore free from the main body, its 120mm tube spinning like a top. The Abrams engine shot out of the back like a squeezed bar of soap. Oh, this was impressive. This was pure joy to Sheng, better than porn.
“We are the conquerors,” he told the main turret crew. “We are supreme, the lords of the battlefield.”
The T-66 crew cheered.
Sheng allowed them the moment. Ten seconds later, he snapped an order. Tonight, they would smash Tenth Armor Division and open the way to LA.
Sergeant McGee’s corpse was gone, devoured in the inferno that had destroyed his beloved M1A3. The battalion was dying and the hated enemy bloodied but advancing victoriously on Palm Springs.
Captain Stan Higgins was wide-awake and on the move, directing his Behemoth down from the tank carrier.
It was 3:19 AM, cool and dark outside. Tenth Division was gone as an organized force, the vast majority of it was dead and littered on the white sands beyond Palm Springs. That meant wrecked Abrams, destroyed Bradleys and demolished Humvees, 155mm self-propelled artillery, Strykers and supply vehicles by the hundreds. Many of the hulks burned miles outside of Palm Springs. Close to eighteen thousand American soldiers were dead. Maybe seven hundred or so fled from the approaching T-66s. Less than a hundred still fought, firing a TOW here or a Javelin missile there. It meant the Chinese crept forward instead of racing into Palm Springs.
It helped that artillery fired from within the city. Several infantry battalions were also setting up in Palm Springs. There was a woeful lack of armor and very few Bradleys with their TOWs.
The last of the Apache gunships were dying, although they had managed to kill T-66s, about a dozen of them.
The Tank Army of the great Chinese right hook followed the conquering T-66s of the first wave.
Stan knew these things, and yet he calmly motioned the driver easy does it down the carrier’s ramp.
Colonel Wilson marched up to him then. The man wore a red scarf around his neck, with the end whipping about at each step. In the wash of sodium streetlamps, he eyed Stan critically. “Your tank is down. Good. I want you to head out immediately. Captain Reece will go with you.”
“Two tanks, sir?” Stan asked.
“We want to slow the Chinese down before they hit the city.”
“This is our great moment, sir. I think—”
“Are you refusing orders, Captain?”
“No sir,” Stan said. “I’m just thinking—”
“You leave the thinking to me,” Wilson said. “I want you to obey orders for once.”
“Yes sir,” Stan said.
“Get out there and stop the forward advance. But don’t go farther than our artillery shells can reach.”
“Yes sir,” Stan said. He hadn’t intended to do that anyway.
Wilson eyed him critically, waiting. He finally asked, “Haven’t you forgotten something, Captain?”
“No sir,” Stan said, knowing what Wilson expected. “It isn’t good practice to salute near the forward lines. The enemy likes to take out the officers. If I salute you, sir, I’m marking you for death.”
Wilson blushed and nodded sharply. Without another word, he turned and strode away.
“The man’s an ass,” Jose muttered from behind Stan.
Stan shrugged. “He’s our commanding officer, so we’ll give him the respect he’s due.”
“Which is nothing, right?” Jose asked.
“Wrong,” Stan said. “His commission and rank deserve respect. Now let’s get going.”
“Alone to face the enemy?” Jose asked.
“Didn’t you hear? Captain Reece’s Behemoth will be joining us. Now let’s quit jawing. We have a job to do.”
“I have reports, Marshal,” General Pi said.
Nung blinked his eyes and lifted his chin off his chest. “What was that?” he asked groggily. Had he been sleeping?
“The American Tenth Division has been destroyed, sir. Our lead tankers have spotted Palm Springs. There are reports of new American formations setting up within city limits.”
Nung nodded and smacked his lips before speaking. “I expected that. The Americans will have poured whatever they could find to block us. Now is the moment to shatter them just as we have destroyed the armored division. Afterward, we will drive onward to LA and greater glory.”
“The attack is for China’s greatness,” Marshal Gang said in his deep voice.
Nung nodded, not for the first time hating the man’s presence. “Here,” Nung said, stabbing a finger on the computer map. “Here is the beginning of the march to American dismemberment. Once we are in LA, then we will turn our attack onto annihilating the trapped Army Group.”
“Let the trapped troops wither on the vine,” Gang suggested. “That is the wise move. As Sun Tzu has said, ‘If the army does not have baggage and heavy equipment it will be lost; if it does not have provisions it will be lost; if it does not have stories it will be lost.’ Therefore, the trapped Americans are now lost to their cause.”
Nung scowled. Instead of answering with a sharp rebuttal or a Sun Tzu quote of his own, he let the statement go. The marshals who quoted the ancient sage on war didn’t impress him. The Americans had said it better long ago: shock and awe. He had shocked the enemy, would continue to do so, and that awed them and made men’s knees weak. That was the time to strike.
“Here,” Nung said for the third time. “Here at Palm Springs is where the Americans will truly realize that we
