Drone hovers appeared, firing as they raced like greyhounds toward the Behemoths. If they could get close enough, the experimental tanks would be unable to use their defensive fire effectively. Behind the hovers came Marauder light tanks. For several minutes, confusion reigned. The Chinese vehicles and howitzers spewed mass fire against the five American giants.
Wilson winced each time an enemy sabot round made it through the blizzard of defensive fire and hit the tank. Each round
In return the five Behemoths reaped a swathing harvest of enemy vehicles. Hovers exploded, flipping over and burning. One flew into the air, spun and landed so the cannon bored into the earth like a drill, until it snapped and the vehicle crashed again, this time onto its side. A light tank burst into flame. A crewmember opened a hatch and tried to escape. The hatch banged onto him, trapping the man. He opened his mouth, screaming surely. His hands covered his face, but the flames melted those and soon the man sagged, dead.
It was grim. It was war, and the Behemoth was a demon in its element of destruction.
“I’m seeing the howitzers, sir, in the long-range scope.”
“Give the AI its head,” Wilson ordered.
The turret swiveled, a targeting laser sighted and the tank shuddered as the cannon spewed a shell. Two miles away, a howitzer blew into separate pieces.
The other howitzers continued banging away, sending their shells in a ballistic trajectory. The Behemoths fired their penetrators in a nearly straight line and many times faster than the enemy munitions.
Chinese infantry began to appear from ditches, doorways and on rooftops. They popped off RPGs. Those had no effect on the Behemoths, but they kept trying. Too many failed to run away in time and died to flechettes shredding them into gory ruin.
A mile and a half later, the first T-66s entered the fray. They were eighteen of the advanced Chinese tanks in the first wave. None survived, although they knocked a tread off a Behemoth.
“What are your orders, sir?” the crippled Behemoth commander asked.
“Tell me this,” Wilson said. “Can you bail out and run back to our lines?”
“We would never make it, sir.”
“I agree.”
“So…”
“So you remain where you are, commander,” Wilson said. “Your cannon has greater reach than any other vehicle on the battlefield does. You’ve just become our artillery support, in a manner of speaking.”
“Yes, Colonel, I understand. Good luck, sir.”
“We do this for America, commander.”
“And for our families, sir.”
“Yes,” Wilson said. “They are the heart of our country.”
Because the first wave of T-66s failed to halt them, the Behemoths advanced. A new American recon drone appeared overhead after a Chinese SAM had destroyed the first one. This UAV provided them targeting coordinates on hundreds of big Chinese supply trunks in the distance.
“Fire at will,” Wilson ordered.
In a matter of three and a half minutes, one hundred and sixteen haulers exploded and began to burn. Very few escaped.
“I’m low on ammunition, Colonel,” one Behemoth commander radioed.
“There’s no help for it now,” Wilson said. “We keep advancing. Choose your targets carefully. If nothing else, you can provide us with protective fire.”
The four Behemoths, three surviving Bradleys and two brave and lucky Humvees reached the outskirts of Riverside. The final battle began with another cruise missile attack, followed by a thousand special infantry, fifty light tanks and two hundred and forty-one T-66s. It was an inferno of destruction, with nearly one hundred percent Chinese losses.
Then the first Behemoth finally died as four T-66 shells made it through the defensive fire and together hammered through the amazingly thick armor.
A new air assault destroyed a second Behemoth, this one to the rear of the formation. That left three experimental tanks, then two and finally Colonel Wilson was alone with his crew among a sea of burning Chinese vehicles.
Wilson viewed the screens. He had never seen a battlefield like this. Over two hundred and twenty triple- turreted tanks burned or lay on their sides, destroyed. The Behemoths had become a plague to the Chinese tanks.
Now three more big enemy tanks clanked into view.
“Sir!” the comm-officer shouted.
The Behemoth turret swiveled. The giant tank shuddered, and they destroyed yet another enemy tank. Then the world ended for Colonel Wilson as the enemy cannons blew past the defensive fire and opened holes in the battered armor. The huge engine exploded. The world turned white and Colonel Wilson became simply the latest Killed in Action in the defense of his homeland.
Three days after the original breakthrough of the Behemoths into the Escondido Pocket, Paul clutched the butterfly controls of a Browning .50 caliber. He shared a foxhole with Romo outside of Poway. Clouds hid the sun. The Chinese were stirring in the rubble of the destroyed city, likely getting ready for yet another attack. To Kavanagh it seemed as if the enemy never slept.
All during the exodus of the trapped Americans through Escondido and I-15, the Chinese had fought their way through Poway, trying to rush the rearguard, to shatter them and collapse the pocket.
Paul’s eyes felt gritty and he yawned. He’d been fighting nonstop for days and he just wanted to sleep. He feared that if he did, he wouldn’t wake up in this world. He’d been thinking a lot about his family lately. He realized now that he would never get to see them again, but at least he had done his part to make sure LA didn’t fall to the Chinese.
“How many did you say again?” he asked Romo.
The assassin sat in the bottom of the foxhole as he clutched extra ammo. He had been to battalion HQ and come back with news.
Romo lifted his chin off his chest. “What did you say?”
“How many of us have made it out of the cauldron so far?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
Paul shrugged, wondering when the Chinese were going to attack. He was bone-tired.
The Chinese had dropped leaflets, showing long lines of American soldiers marching into captivity. The Chinese were busy mopping up the remnants of the once proud Army Group SoCal. Soon, now, everything would hit Los Angeles. First they would first sweep away the rearguard here in Poway and eat up what was left of the Escondido Pocket.
It was just a matter of time before the Chinese juggernaut hit them. The truth, the Americans who had had held out for weeks south of here had given the Chinese something to do. American stubbornness had given the men here time to reach Los Angeles.
The Chinese in Poway...Paul rubbed his eyes. He’d almost fallen asleep. It had been a long trek since Mexico, since the commando assault on the Blue Swan site. Now—
“Brother,” Romo said, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up.”
“Huh?” Paul lifted his head from where it had dropped onto his crossed arms. He’d fallen asleep after all, standing upright in the foxhole. His mouth tasted like old coffee grinds, and he smacked his lips. Then resolve filled him as he remembered where he was. He gripped the Browning and swiveled it—
“Did you hear me?” Romo asked.
“The Chinese aren’t attacking yet,” Paul said, scowling as he studied the enemy. Couldn’t Romo let him get a little shuteye? The lousy assassin—
“Forget about the Chinese,” Romo said. “The Colonel wants us back in Battalion HQ.”
Paul glanced at Romo. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been given orders to go to Battalion HQ. You were asleep when it came.”
