The Russians, as she had read today, used to have very inflexible ideas about how to run an offensive. They had learned bitter lessons from the Germans in two World Wars. The Second World War had been particularly savage for the country. Although Russia eventually won the conflict, they had taken staggering losses. The German method of combat, the blitzkrieg or lightning war, had awed the Russians, stamping it on their hearts and minds. Years later, in their military manuals for attacking Western Europe during the Cold War, the Russians had advocated a similar form of ceaseless assault. They had believed in the Axe Theory of combat: to pour troops into the most successful advances and to ignore whatever didn’t work, discard whatever failed.
Marshal Nung appeared to have learned his earliest military lessons at the Moscow Academy. Ever since then, he had attempted to practice “lightning war.” That appeared to be at odds with normal Chinese military doctrine.
What did that tell her?
Hmm. Marshal Nung had led the only truly successful attack during the Alaskan War. He had captured his target, even though he had taken brutal losses doing so. In the Siberian War, he had made the brilliant strike that brought Chinese victory.
Anna sat back so her chair creaked. Her eyes were half-lidded. Probably better than anyone in America, she grasped what the political infighting was like on the Ruling Committee. Nung was Jian Hong’s darling. The Leader backed the Marshal and together they had achieved what President Sims deemed as a military miracle. The originality for the California assault likely came from Marshal Nung.
Anna picked up her e-reader and studied wartime assassinations. Hmm, this was interesting. In 1943, in something called Operation Vengeance, America sent a squadron of P-38 Lightning fighters on a mission of assassination. The pilots were to target Admiral Yamamoto’s plane, hoping to kill the man who had planned the attack on Pearl Harbor. The pilots succeeded, and according to this article, Admiral Yamamoto’s death had damaged Japanese morale.
Anna continued reading, and she found out about the British commando attempt to assassinate the Desert Fox, General Rommel, in North Africa in 1941. It had been called Operation Flipper. It might have worked, too, but Rommel had gone to Rome to request replacements for supply ships sunk by the enemy. Thus, he was not in place when the commandos struck.
What would happen if they killed Marshal Nung? If nothing else, it might give the soldiers in Los Angeles time as the Chinese reorganized their command structure, or as the new commander took over.
Anna stood up, determined to take this to the President.
As the political leaders and their aides spoke, argued and decided strategy, Captain Stan Higgins smoked a cigar as he leaned against his worn Behemoth tank. His eyes were red from a lack of sleep and his arms and legs felt jittery because of the stims he’d been taking to stay awake.
The promotion to major hadn’t gone through, so he was back to being a captain again. Not that Stan cared one way or another. He knew he wasn’t going to survive the war. He was going to die in LA. The odds were simply too heavily stacked against him.
Stan rolled the cigar in his fingers and thrust it back into his mouth. He liked the strong taste and the smoke helped keep him awake. It bothered him that General Larson had ignored his advice. Instead of keeping the battle-winning Behemoth Regiment intact, the General had split it into its component companies. The General had spread the companies throughout Anaheim. The city—part of Greater Los Angeles—was a wasteland of rubble and skeletal buildings. General Larson had told Stan his reasoning. He needed the Behemoths all along the line in order to stiffen the soldiers by bolstering morale. If they saw the tanks with them, they would likely stand their ground longer.
Stan inhaled on the cigar. Above, the sky was black from burning oil, rubber and a host of other inflammables. Los Angeles and Anaheim in particular was aflame.
Chinese artillery boomed in the distance. From offshore, enemy battleships sent titanic rounds hammering into everything. If one of those giant shells hit his tank directly, it would take out the Behemoth.
Stan exhaled cigar smoke. For two days now the Chinese had ground into Anaheim. Special Infantry wave assaults, penal battalions attacks, Eagle Team jetpack commandos, Marauder tanks, T-66s, IFVs, assault guns, mortars, mag grenades, RGPs, cannon shells—Stan rubbed his eyes. The Chinese assaults just never stopped. It was more than depressing. It was soul numbing.
The naval gunfire shells were landing closer now. Each strike shook the ground and caused rubble and concrete to geyser and rain. The chatter of enemy machine guns began. PAA soldiers shouted hoarsely. Bugle blasted and bullets whined.
“Professor,” Jose shouted down from the tank’s top hatch. “The General wants to talk to you.”
Stan ground out his cigar and stuffed the unused part in his front pocket. Then he grasped the rungs on the side of the tank and climbed up. He was so damned tired that it was hard to think. Smoking the cigar was his one moment of peace in a world that had turned into a hectic and never-ending battle.
The Chinese never stopped. Of his three tanks, only his own worked now. Two M1A3s had dragged the stalled monsters deeper into Anaheim. They were the last ditch stronghold in case everything fell apart, which it looked like was happening and would only accelerate.
As Stan climbed up the tank, he paused and turned his head. Look over there, a hundred American teenagers ran for their lives, leaving their foxholes and rubble strongpoints. Most pitched aside their assault rifles. Stan looked left. A seven-story building collapsed. Through the dust he saw running American soldiers, although most of them kept their weapons.
The Chinese kept pushing them back, destroying everything and sending Eagle Teams commandos behind every defensive position. The enemy had gone berserk, pouring men and materiel at them.
The Chinese didn’t have a limit. It was crazy. It was mad. And it was all too true.
Stan slid into the tank, plopping himself into the commander’s seat. He flipped on a screen. General Larson glared at him in it. The man was tall, a real tactician, brilliant usually.
“Captain, you’re the only thing that’s stable in your part of Anaheim. The Chinese are pouring through our lines. You have to stop them.”
“Yes, sir,” Stan said. “You realize I only have one Behemoth running, right, sir?”
“Higgins!” the General shouted. “Stop the attack. I can’t afford to have your line crumble into nothing. We’re stretched everywhere right now and every line is shaky. You have to give me something solid. I need you to anchor your location down
“With one tank, sir?” Stan asked. He was too tired. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have talked this way.
“You have your orders, Captain. I expect you to do your duty.”
The screen went blank.
“Well,” Stan said into the quiet compartment. “You heard the General. We have the Behemoth and just about nothing else. Let’s see what we can do.”
“Better close the hatch, Professor,” Jose said from below. “I don’t want you to catch your death.”
Stan reached up and closed the hatch with a clang. A moment later, the driver started the mighty engine. The tank shook. It didn’t run as smoothly anymore. Too many things ran on a knife’s edge.
“Battery power is at eighty percent,” Jose said.
“It will have to do,” Stan said. He’d switched on every screen, and he now studied the situation with a critical eye. Seven Marauder tanks were roaming the streets, heading for the American teenagers. The teenagers had been formed into a Militia company three days ago. Stan didn’t blame the poor kids in the least. In fact, they reminded him of Jake. What had happened to the Bradleys that were supposed to help—
Oh, he saw the Bradleys on Screen 3. They were burning hulks or they were flipped upside down. Something had taken them out. Maybe the battleship shells had done it.
The Behemoth clanked toward the approaching Marauders two streets over. Stan used images from a video- cam from a soldier recording in the rubble. The tank’s AI computed distance and trajectory.
“The cannon’s ready, Professor,” Jose called up.
“Do you see the Marauders,” Stan asked.
