Invasion: California

“Roger.”

“Take out the back tank first.”

The Behemoth shuddered in a quick succession of shots. At least Jose and other mechanics had fixed the turret swivel. It moved like lightning, just as designed.

Stan watched on his screens. One after another, the Marauders exploded. Some of the Behemoth shells bored through rubble or buildings like a .44 Magnum through a cheap car. The last two Chinese light tanks reversed course and fled. It didn’t help, and soon they were also burning hulks.

“Good work, Jose,” Stan said. “Now let’s head to grid seven-nine-nine.”

Stan saw an Eagle Team in flight. They were swinging wide, but not widely enough. Using the 30mm guns, Stan took over control and sent several antipersonnel rounds screaming at them. The AI had set each shell’s proximity fuse. He watched on Screen 1. The Chinese jetpack commandos fell like wasps hit by bug spray.

The AI took over in emergency defensive mode then. The tank revved, backed up, and the 30mms and flechette launchers chugged. Seconds later, battleship shells landed uncomfortably near. The Behemoth shook from their impact on the ground. If one of those hit them directly—

The turret swiveled as T-66s appeared in the distance and across the rubble. The Behemoth shuddered again, this time from its own cannon. The mighty engine whined from the strain and Jose shouted that battery power was down to fifty-three percent.

Like prehistoric dinosaurs, the Chinese triple-turreted tanks fought the mighty Behemoth. It was mayhem, flying shells and defensive fire. Twice, a T-66 shell slammed against them, deflected by its immense thickness.

Stan’s ears rang from the noise and none of them could hear what the other man was saying. It didn’t matter at this point. They knew the routine. Seven enemy tanks burned, flipped or stood as useless scrap metal.

Stan slid from his seat and tapped the driver’s shoulder. He motioned, back her up fast.

The Behemoth retreated, and barely in time. A mass artillery hurricane fell where the tank had been. Seconds later, battleship shells crashed. They caused rubble and cement to geyser like titanic whale blowholes spewing water.

Stan took the Behemoth out of easy enemy view. Then, by hand signal, he motioned for the driver to head down a side street. The massive tank rumbled and crushed everything in its path.

“Can you hear me?” Stan shouted.

“A little, Captain,” the driver said.

Stan climbed back up to the commander’s seat. In a screen, he saw advancing Chinese infantry. Because of the hurricane artillery barrage, he didn’t think they heard the tank. That didn’t happen too often, but when it did—

“Now,” Stan said.

The driver drove the Behemoth into the back of a standing building. Moments later, the giant tank burst out of the front. Before them were over two hundred Chinese infantry. Some stood waiting, maybe for the artillery bombardment to end. A lot of them sat on packs as they snacked and drank bottled water. The soldiers scrambled to their feet and grabbed their weapons. It didn’t matter. In less than two seconds, thousands of flechettes made a gory ruin of the enemy. Body armor didn’t help them today.

“Keep going!” Stan shouted. “Let’s see if we can catch something behind the buildings of seven-nine- eight.”

The Behemoth raced to the buildings when five drones darted in from the sky like rocketing hawks. The enemy aircraft fired their main guns. The shells struck with resounding clangs, making a terrible din within the tank, but they did nothing permanent against the Behemoth’s heavy armor. In turn, the tank’s AI shot the drones out of the air.

The Behemoth turned the corner. At point blank range, enemy troops raced back into open IFVs. Some of the Chinese sprinted away. Others opened fire on the tank. Their puny guns—IFVs and soldiers alike—could do nothing against the American marvel. In return, Stan and his crew destroyed everything.

“It’s time to fall back,” Stan said. “Turn over air and missile defense to the AI.”

It was good thing he did that. Chinese artillery rained. Several times, shell fragments clanged against them. Then battlefield missiles targeted them. The AI shot them down, although several nearby blasts rocked the Behemoth.

“We’re low on ammo,” Jose said.

Stan checked battery power. Look at that. One of the main batteries had decided it could hold juice after all. They were back up to sixty-one percent.

“Well done, Captain Higgins,” General Larson said, appearing on screen 5. “It looks as if you’ve stemmed the local assault.”

“If I had all the Behemoths together—” Stan began.

Onscreen, General Larson held up a hand. “What do you think is going on, Captain? We’re holding on with nothing to spare. Your Behemoth and others in the line are doing miracles. It’s why we’re holding on in Anaheim. We aren’t attacking anymore. We’re simply buying our country time and hopefully bleeding the Chinese beyond anything they expected.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan said. He could have added that one of these times the Chinese were going to get lucky. Actually, the enemy didn’t even need to get lucky. The odds would finally catch up with each Behemoth.

But what did it matter saying that? Everyone knew the odds. At least for another hour this portion of the line in Anaheim still held. It would give command time to reorganize. Maybe it would give the teenagers time to stop and catch their breath. Maybe it would even give the Militia enough time so their nerve returned and they went back to holding their part of the defense.

USS SOUTH DAKOTA

Like a deadly Great White Shark, the Virginia-class fast attack submarine glided through the deep. It was in the main shipping lane between Chinese-controlled Hawaii and the U.S. Pacific Coast.

It sped from its grisly handiwork, the sinking of a Chinese SI transport, with thousands of dead and dying Chinese soldiers in the water. With critical intelligence received twenty-eight hours ago, the South Dakota had moved into range, then crept into position and Captain Leroy Clay had proceeded to hunt.

Two modified Mark 48 torpedoes had left the tubes and demolished the large cargo vessel. Now the submarine glided away, heading deeper, sinking through a cold-water layer, called a thermocline.

The sonar men listened. The rest of the crew waited in terrible anticipation and Captain Clay stared into space. He was a six-foot-six black man, often having to hunch as he moved through the submarine.

There, the sounds of distant, underwater explosions told the story.

“They’re hunting us now,” Captain Clay said.

“They’re well out of range, Captain,” the chief sonar-man said.

“And we’re going to keep it that way,” Clay said. “Conn, take us deeper. I want the cold water layer hiding us.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

For the next thirty-seven minutes they played the old cat-and-mouse game first begun in World War I between the British and Germans. The submariners endured the hammering thuds against the skin of their vessel. None of the depth charges—giant grenades really—were near enough to cause concussion damage against the hull integrity of the fast attack submarine. This time the South Dakota was going to beat the Chinese, or they should have.

Forty-one minutes after the sinking of the SI transport, the rules changed in the deadly game at sea.

“I think they’re leaving, Captain,” the chief sonar-man said.

Clay nodded, and he continued to wait. It was perhaps his greatest virtues as a submarine captain.

Later, the sonar-man added, “I don’t hear any enemy ships, sir.”

“They can still use helicopters to drop the depth charges,” Clay said.

The South Dakota continued with silent running. Fifty-three minutes after the transport’s sinking, the sonar-man cocked his head. He might have heard—

A terrific and terrible underwater explosion occurred. This depth charge wasn’t any closer than the previous ones had been. The difference was in its explosive power, fueled by a nuclear warhead. Then came another