increasingly heated battle.
“We’ve lost eleven Abrams so far,” Wilson radioed.
Stan sat in his commander’s seat in the Behemoth. The trouble was the terrain. Here it definitely favored the defender. And in this instance, Chinese troops had infiltrated between Temecula and Escondido and grown stronger through helicopter reinforcements.
Stan spoke into the receiver. “I suggest you tell General Larson that he should accept the losses of all his Abrams in order to smash through the Chinese line. If we don’t break through into the pocket today, we can kiss California goodbye.”
“Those are harsh words, Captain.”
“Yes, sir, but the truth is we’re going to need more soldiers in order to defend Los Angeles. That means a few lost tanks here won’t matter in the end. All that matters is getting the trapped men free and ready to face tomorrow. This is our Dunkirk, sir.”
“Dunkirk, I’ve heard that name before,” Wilson said.
“You should. It’s a story of great valor and cunning. In 1940, the German panzers had slipped through the Ardennes, shattered the French and trapped the British Army on the coast. The British retreated to Dunkirk, and it was only a matter of time before the panzers came in to finish the job. Hitler took too long, however, interfering with his generals. That gave the British time to send every ship afloat to Dunkirk, where they ferried over 300,000 soldiers back to England. It saved the British, sir, because without those troops they wouldn’t have been able to hold out against a German cross-Channel invasion.”
“And you think this is our Dunkirk?” Wilson asked.
“I think so, sir. We need to ferry out our soldiers to fight again another day.”
“Yes, it’s what I’ll tell the General. A few Abrams don’t matter now.”
“In truth, our Behemoths don’t matter either,” Stan said. “We have to break through and free these soldiers, sacrificing whatever we have to in order to do it.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Wilson said.
“Those are my sentiments exactly, sir.”
Flight Lieutenant Harris found it hard to concentrate. He could hear Chinese artillery shells landing near the bunker. That shook the equipment in here and made plaster fall from the ceiling. PAA forces had steadily infiltrated San Diego and pushed back the American perimeter.
It was the confounded hovers. The Chinese controlled the ocean, reinforcing at will along the coast and attacking anywhere there that they wanted.
“Lieutenant,” a voice said in his ear.
Harris wore drone-gear as he piloted what would likely be his last V-10 UCAV. He was part of an air wing over I-15. They were covering the great escape, or what they hoped would be the great escape of the trapped American troops. Unfortunately, no one was coming for them here in San Diego. It was too far behind enemy lines. The terrible part was that they weren’t the only cut-off and trapped city. All over San Diego County the situation was the same. The Chinese had shattered the integrity of Army Group SoCal and now squeezed each pocket tighter and tighter.
“Look to your left,” the air-controller said.
“Sorry,” Harris said. He had to forget about his own troubles. He had a job to do. He concentrated on flying his V-10. He ignored the shudder around him and the piece of plaster that fell near his feet. Instead, concentrating, he peered through the VR goggles and saw that the sky over I-15 swarmed with Chinese drones and jet fighters.
Clenching his teeth, Flight Lieutenant Harris decided this was going to be the only payback he would get. Soon, he would be dead or he would be a prisoner. Would they ship him south into Mexico, or would they transport him across the Pacific to China? Either way, he would never come home. He was certain of that.
“Let’s do this,” he whispered.
Several J-25s bored toward them. Higher up were recon drones. Battle ops called for no enemy recon vehicles. They were trying to keep the Chinese blind about what was going on along the highway.
The threat receiver growled in his ear. Harris expelled chaff, executed a hard-G maneuver and brought his small V-10 into position. He had lock-on, and he launched two Sun-stingers. Then he decided—
In his operator’s seat, Harris shook from side-to-side. He had no idea what was going on. Then someone tore off his VR goggles. A panicked MP with blood running down his face stood before him.
“What are you doing?” Harris asked.
“Chinese soldiers have blown the bunker entrance,” the MP said. “Take this.” The man shoved an assault rifle into his hands. Then the man fell backward, and try as he might, the MP couldn’t get back up.
Harris stared at the dying man and then at the ugly thing in his hands. Feeling as if he was in a nightmare, he called the air-controller. “I have to sign off. Someone else needs to control my drone.”
The air-controller acknowledged.
Standing, ripping off the leads attached to him, Harris brought up the assault rifle and moved toward the sound of gunfire. The Chinese were in the bunker. What did that mean?
Blinking, Harris realized what it meant.
A well of fear constricted his chest. His eyes bulged, and Flight Lieutenant Harris began to shake. This wasn’t anything like flying drones. This wasn’t like a first-person shooter computer game, either. This was for real.
Another MP ahead of him turned the corner and fired his weapon behind him. Armor-piercing bullets ripped through the corner and blew the MP backward.
With a howl of anguish, Harris ran to the same corner, stepping over the MP. He saw two armored Chinese soldiers. He lifted the assault rifle and emptied the magazine at them. He shot the floor first, then one of the enemy and finally the ceiling. It was crazy, the assault rifle shook like mad as he fired, causing the barrel to rise. He must have gotten lucky, because one of the Chinese lay on the floor with a gaping wound in his face. The other one aimed his assault weapon.
Grinding his teeth together, Harris yanked out the magazine and started to put in another one. But he was not ground-combat trained and he had forgotten to duck back out of sight. As he slapped the magazine into the slot, the Chinese soldier fired a three-round burst, two of them catching Harris in the chest. He staggered backward and crashed to the floor. He found it hard to breathe, hard to see.
Boots appeared before his eyes. A soldier spoke Chinese. Then a barrel appeared before Harris’s face. He heard a click, and then Flight Lieutenant Harris didn’t hear anything at all, ever.
“Those are the giant tanks,” Nung said. He stared at the computer table, at images recorded from the air- battle over I-15. Beside a giant tank, a passing Humvee looked like a child’s toy.
“If the giant tanks are here,” Pi said, “it means they are no longer guarding Palm Springs.”
Nung looked up. This was an excellent point. “Alert the general of the Tank Army outside Palm Springs. I want his advance units to make an immediate assault upon the city.”
“Palm Springs is surely heavily guarded by others,” Pi said.
“Yes, surely,” Nung agreed.
Marshal Gang muttered under his breath as he strode to the computer table. “I would make an observation.”
“You are free to do so,” Nung said.
“The Americans have entrenched themselves in Palm Springs,” Gang said. “A frontal attack now would mean heavy losses to our T-66s. A methodical assault with intense artillery preparation is the correct procedure.”
“For assaulting an entrenched enemy, you are correct,” Nung said.
Gang raised his eyebrows, likely in surprise. “Is this not what they are?”
“I see the broader picture,” Nung said, “because I have a grand strategical goal. Everything I do is based upon that goal. The Americans have one technologically advanced weapons system over us: the giant tanks with
