The smile slipped three minutes later. Stan kept a clicker, counting hits, counting kills. So far, Jose had destroyed twenty-three tri-turreted tanks, almost eight a minute. Reece probably had a similar count. Stan’s smile slipped because a loud noise from the engine area made his gut clench.
“What’s wrong?” Stan shouted.
“A generator,” the driver said.
“Battery power is dropping,” the radio operator said, who helped Jose right now.
Stan peered through the thermal scope. The Chinese were still coming.
For the moment, he needn’t have worried. Yet another hard surge rocked the Behemoth as a shell roared away. How long could they keep this up? Theoretically, a long time, but the desert tests had shown them not to expect that.
Even as Stan worried, shell after shell continued to drop into the chamber. The turret swiveled, the gun adjusted and the penetrator round reached supersonic speed as it raced at the oncoming Chinese.
Soon after the giant enemy tanks opened fire, the order came down the Chinese line of command: Charge the enemy and destroy the technological marvels at close range.
First Lieutenant Sheng rode in his platoon’s last T-66. The other two tanks were smoking hulks. Behind him thundered hundreds of tri-turreted tanks.
It was then Sheng learned the truth. The major told them over the company net. “It seems to be only two American tanks we’re facing.”
“Two?” Sheng said. That couldn’t be right. Not two tanks. The way they fired, so fast, so accurately, each hit drilling though a T-66—these things were science fiction dreams.
“We will be in firing range soon,” the major said. It was the last time Sheng heard from him, as the major’s T-66 blew apart.
“Two American tanks are doing this?” Sheng asked aloud in wonder.
Sheng sat between his computer screens. Sweat soaked his back. How was this possible? Could the enemy have better weapons than China? No, that was impossible.
Three seconds later, his internal debated ended. An electromagnetically ejected penetrator round smashed into Sheng’s tank. The velocity—white-hot BB-like sparks were the last things Sheng saw. One passed through his chest and First Lieutenant Sheng died. Immediately the T-66 generated an internal inferno and turrets popped off, spinning away onto the white sands.
Stan’s Behemoth continued to malfunction, but in a more serious manner now. Sensors in the engine diagnosed trouble. It could begin a forced shutdown any second, stranding them out here.
“Not now,” Stan said with a groan. “My engine is about to begin an involuntary shutdown,” he said over the radio.
“Back up,” Colonel Wilson said. “Get out of there. We’re on our way with the rest of the regiment.”
“Roger,” Stan said. “Captain Reece should probably come with me.”
“Negative,” Wilson said.
“Sir—”
“I give the orders,” Wilson said over the radio. “Now scoot.”
Stan licked his lips. He had won his famed medal by—
“What are we doing, sir?” the driver asked.
Stan only gave it a moment’s thought. An order was an order. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s move out.” He immediately got on the radio with Captain Reece and told him the score. “I’m moving out,” Stan told him. “Orders.”
“Don’t worry about us, Higgins.”
Stan did worry. Why didn’t the Colonel order Reece to come with him? Slowly, the Behemoth began to clank, retreating from the still sizable mob of enemy T-66s. It was the last time he spoke to Captain Reece and their crew.
Twenty T-66s made it within range, and they fired salvos of sabot rounds at Reece’s Behemoth. The shells flew like angry wasps roaring with destruction. The defending beehive flechettes and auto-cannons took out most of the rounds. Most, but not all of them—with a terrific
Stan’s tank stopped by that time, the forced shutdown stranding them for the moment. The remaining T-66s started for him. They never reached that far, as the rest of the Behemoths had finally left Palm Springs and now closed with and destroyed the final enemy lunge at the city.
It ended the first battle for Palm Springs, leaving one dead Behemoth tank, two out due to technical difficulties other than engine trouble and three with engine trouble. In return, they had destroyed three hundred and fifty-nine T-66s and for the moment, at least, halted the right hook to Palm Springs and LA beyond.
-8-
The Cauldron
Paul Kavanagh sat on a stuffed chair inside the lobby of a large hotel. For almost a week now, he’d been craving a Snickers bar. Ever since he and Romo had started back to the American lines, he’d been dreaming of the chewy insides.
Lying back on the chair, with his assault rifle propped beside him, Paul watched Romo stride nearer, Snickers bar in hand.
The Mexican assassin had gotten thinner and he looked out of place in the striped green uniform of an American Militia corporal. Paul also felt out of place wearing a similar uniform, although he had a sergeant’s markings. But it made the Lieutenant happy, so what the heck, huh?
The Lieutenant had saved their lives…yeah, that was three days ago now—an eternity of fighting. Three days ago, Paul and Romo had been crawling nearer and nearer the battered American lines, slithering past rubble, endless drifting paper and strewn garbage. It sure hadn’t been a line in the sand. The place had been many miles from the destroyed casements and smashed bunkers of the SoCal Border Fortifications they had crept past. It had been beyond the second and third trench lines. Dead and bloating bodies, with spilled intestines and thousands, no,
Paul and Romo had been crawling through rubble, easing past watching Chinese gunners. They had slipped past a Chinese patrol in the streets of La Presa. Then one of the patrol members had spotted Romo. A buzz and a quick look upward had shown Paul a small UAV with Chinese markings. That had been just great, spotted by an enemy drone.
PAA bullets made the decision for them. Tired from days alone and from having walked endless miles after ditching the two stolen vehicles, they’d sprinted down the street for the American positions.
Machine gun fire coming from ahead of them struck the paving, chips of cement hitting Paul in the chest. Then, as suddenly as the firing had begun—the friendly machine guns aiming at their faces—it stopped.
Several seconds later, Paul discovered why. The Lieutenant had ordered his teenage machine gunners to stop firing. The man had recognized Paul and Romo as Americans.
The two kids behind the .50 caliber, they had watched Paul with wide, scared eyes. Paul had merely nodded to them. Then he’d jumped down right there beside them behind the sandbags. Paul had added his assault rifle fire against the Chinese patrol that led the probe against the shrinking American lines.
Paul and Romo had reached their destination, the one they had dreamed about for days, wondering if they would ever reach it. Since everything had been chaos three days ago, they’d donned the uniform of the Anaheim Militia Company that had saved them and joined the Lieutenant’s woefully understrength platoon.
