Invasion: California

by Vaughn Heppner

  Anna watched the debate, appalled at the exchange concerning her reliability. It was hard to accept that anyone could think of her as a traitor.

  “I believe Blue Swan exists,” the President said. “I do not accept that it is a bluff. Therefore, what are your suggestions for defeating it?”

  General Alan blinked at the President. Finally, he said, “If these missiles truly exist, sir, if the Chinese possess them in number, our entire front could melt away in a matter of days. We could lose California before the war is even a week old.”

  “If we attempted to pull back to redeploy farther from the border and the Chinese attacked, the front would be just as damaged,” Sims said.

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs grew still. He showed surprise, shock and then wonderment. “Sir, you believe the missiles are real. Yet you seem to be suggesting we let our troops absorb the electronic attack. Are you saying then we let our troops die where they stand, given this thing works? That’s an entire Army Group you’re talking about. We can’t spare that many soldiers and hope to hold everywhere else.”

  Anna watched in fascination. President Sims’s eyes hardened with determination. The splotchy features began to transform into an approximation of what she’d seen on TV before. With a little makeup, yes, he would look like the war-hero President the country had learned to trust.

  “We don’t have any good choices,” the President said. “I didn’t have good choices in Alaska, either, but we beat the Chinese before Anchorage. We can beat them again if we all pull together. Yes, the world has gathered into growing packs of jackals and those packs are sniffing at our door.”

  He’s making a speech. We need strategy now, not speeches, Anna thought.

  “George Washington beat the British,” Sims declared. “Lincoln defeated the South. Wilson brought down the Kaiser’s Germany and Roosevelt defeated the Third Reich and the Japanese. Well, I didn’t become President to let the world dismember my country. I’m here to tell you that we’re going to outthink and outfight the Chinese. They have a jump on us. A possible jump,” he said, glancing first at the major, Anna and then the rest of the people in the chamber. “This jump is a technological missile of unusual proportions. We can’t afford to leave our border fortifications in SoCal and we can’t afford to let the enemy saturate us and roll over hundreds of thousands of our best soldiers. Therefore, this is what we’re going to do. As quietly and quickly as possible, we’re going to withdraw our mobile forces out of the missile’s radius of damage.”

  “What is the radius?” General Alan asked.

  No one answered.

  President Sims licked his lips. “Right,” he said. “We begin pulling out our best mobile formations from their positions near the fortifications. We pull out those in the second and third line, too. I want them well out of the EMP radius. Those mobile formations will redeploy well behind the front, maybe even near southern LA. If the Chinese attack and shatter our defenses, we hope our soldiers there fight tenaciously to buy the rest of the county time. If we must, we plug the holes with the mobile forces.”

  “If this all happens as we fear,” General Alan said, “we’ll need greater reserves in California than we presently have. But if we’re wrong, and the attack in Texas is the real thing, we’ll have outmaneuvered ourselves by thinning that front or by not placing our extra reserves there.”

  The President stared at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Slowly, reluctantly it seemed like to Anna, Sims nodded. “We’re going to have to take a risk somewhere and speed up the hardening of our electronics among the troops on the border. Send a few reserve divisions to California; put the rest near the Texas Front.”

  General Alan wrote on his computer pad.

  President Sims glanced around the conference table. “We have to change the defenses on the Californian border. More pressure mines that are not vulnerable to EPM instead of our quake and sleeper variety. More fiber optics lines embedded in the ground so there are some backup communications if the EMP hits. Look into what they did in World War I. I seem to recall reading about dispatch runners.”

  “It will take time to retrain our troops into using something so antiquated,” Alan said.

  “We don’t have time,” Sims said. “We need to scrape up troops wherever we can.” He scowled. “I know, I know. We don’t dare take them from Texas or Florida. Yes,” he said, as if to himself. “I want the experimental Behemoth tanks in California.”

  “Sir?” Alan asked.

  “This could be what we’ve been dreading for several years now,” Sims said. “We have to pull out all the stops to face what I think is the coming storm. I don’t care if these Behemoths have teething problems. I want them in California with the reserve troops. That’s what I did in Alaska. I used everything I had to buy us time until reinforcements arrived. We’ll have to scrape together our own reinforcements. Mainly, we’re going to have to fight hard with what we have and exploit every Chinese mistake.”

  “And if they don’t make mistakes?” General Alan asked.

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Sims said. “We’re all human, and I’ve never met a perfect one of us yet. Nor do I think I’m going to any time soon.”

  “Yes, sir,” General Alan said. “And if this Blue Swan situation is an entire bluff?”

  “Then we’ll fall down on our knees and thank God,” Sims said. “Then we’ll concentrate against the Chinese in Texas and the Germans in Florida, if the Huns are arrogant enough to attack us. Are there any questions?”

  “I have one,” Air Force General O’Connor said.

  The President tapped a computer stylus twice on the table before pointing the tip at the general.

  “We keep talking about absorbing the EMP missiles,” O’Connor said. “I think there’s another answer. We need to move or mass our anti-missile lasers and rockets there. The Blue Swan missiles can’t hurt us if we knock them down before they broadcast their electromagnetic pulses.”

  “General Alan?” the President asked.

  “In theory it’s the right move.”

  “But in practice?” the President asked.

  “Massing anti-missile units in SoCal means we open them to the same EMP that will melt all the other electronics. The same holds true for our air cover.”

  “We can’t just let them hit us!” O’Connor shouted. “That means we’re abandoning our boys on the line. My planes and fighter drones can save the situation.”

  “We’re not going to abandon anyone,” the President said.

  “We’re saying that, sir, but—”

  The President slammed a fist onto the table. The chamber became deathly silent.

  “Are you accusing me of double-talk?” the President asked the Air Force General.

  “No, sir,” O’Connor said crisply.

  “Good, because I’m not going to abandon anyone,” Sims said. “We’ll bring more lasers and anti-missile systems to the SoCal Fortifications. We’ll bring more fighters, too. But we’re not going to denude ourselves of cover elsewhere.”

  “How much extra cover are we talking about?” General Alan asked. “It isn’t as if we have enough tactical lasers or flak guns. Which front do we take them from?”

  “I have an idea,” Anna heard herself saying.

  Director Levin stared at her and he shook his head minutely.

  “Concerning military strategy?” General Alan asked in a scornful manner.

  “Mr. President?” Anna asked.

  “Go ahead,” Sims said.

  Anna’s stomach tightened. It was a risk to talk, as others could pin her idea’s failure on her. It was a chancy thing she was about to suggest.

  “Well,” the President asked, “what’s your idea?”

  “Sir, General O’Connor has spoken my thought: why wait for the Chinese to strike with Blue Swan? He advocates knocking down the missiles, and that’s better than letting them strike. But my question is why let them launch at all.”

  General Alan laughed.
“Are you advocating that we attack the Chinese?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Anna said.

  “Ah,” General Alan said. “And just how will you conjure up this army? I’m very curious. If our analysis is correct, the Chinese have thirty-five thousand artillery and mortar tubes massed on the SoCal border, while we have a paltry eleven thousand. They have a clear three to one advantage over us in artillery, tanks and I imagine planes and probably a two to one advantage in numbers.”

  “I’m not a military expert,” Anna said.

  “No, no, tell us your plan,” General Alan said. “Anna Chen, the Chinese expert, can predict the future and instruct us in the military arts. By all means, enlighten us, please.”

  President Sims frowned at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

  Anna looked down and she could feel her face heating up. She should have kept her mouth shut. What had she been thinking?

  “You have to tell us now,” Levin whispered. “You can’t let the general bully you.”

  Anna swallowed, looking up. “Sir,” she told the President. “It seems to me that America cannot allow the launching of Blue Swan. We don’t have the numbers to launch a conventional attack—”

  “Nuclear weapons?” the Army General asked. He scowled, but he nodded. “I concur, sir. We have to go nuclear.”

  “No!” Anna said, horrified. “I’m not talking about nuclear weapons.”

  “What then?” the President asked.

  “Commando teams,” she said.

  General Alan frowned severely, shaking his head. “How do we know where these missiles are? And how do you propose getting our special forces teams down on the ground with the missiles?”

  “The spy in Mexico City might be able to help us pinpoint the missiles’ locations,” Anna said. “As for getting our commandos in, I don’t have the answer to that. I just know that we have to do whatever we can to stop the Blue Swan missiles from hitting the SoCal Fortifications.”

  President Sims sat as if shocked. His nostrils widened and he began to nod. “I hate to order anyone so deep into the midst of the enemy. Those missiles are sure to be heavily guarded. Yet, I don’t see any other way.”

  “It would be suicide to send commandos at those missiles now,” General Alan said.

  “We can only ask for volunteers,” Sims said.

  “Sir…” General Alan said.

  Sims stared at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. His eyes had become red-rimmed. “I don’t know what else you would have me do. It’s a gamble, a terrible risk, but with several hundred men only, maybe two or three thousand commandos all together.”

  “How do you sneak them in, sir?” Alan asked.

  “A mass aerial assault,” O’Connor said grimly. “We saturate the Chinese with drones, all we have. Behind them, we use helos to insert the commandos. Once on the ground, they should know what to do.”

  “It’s mass suicide,” Alan said.

  “It’s better than letting an entire Army Group die on the fortifications,” Sims said.

  “Our drone losses would be staggering,” Alan said. “That would likely give the Chinese control of the air for the duration. We’ve known the air situation will be critical. To then knowingly burn up our air assets on the first day of battle…it is madness, sir.”

  “Our backs are to the wall,” Sims said. “Yes, it’s suicide to send those men, but if this works we’ll actually have a chance at holding California. Ms. Chen, it’s a brilliant plan.”

  “Maybe,” General Alan said. He stared at Anna as if remembering her face for a future showdown.

  “‘Maybe’ is better than certain defeat,” the President said. “How much time do we have until the Chinese launch?” he asked Levin.

  “I don’t know,” the CIA Director said.

  “Give me a ball park estimate.”

  “A day,” Levin said, cautiously, “several days, less than a week, I’m certain.”

  Sims ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “In two days we must strike. It’s madness, but so is Blue Swan.” He took a deep breath. “We have a plan now, a slim hope to save the situation. Let’s get to work.”

  LAS VEGAS TESTING GROUNDS, NEVADA

  Early the next morning, Stan Higgins walked solemnly around his X1 Behemoth #5 for what would likely be for the last time. The monster tank was in the desert where Jose, the driver and he had left it yesterday. Las Vegas’s mountains rose in the distance as the sun worked to show itself, the first rays lighting the edges of the mountaintops.

  Stan sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. It tasted good and was an antidote against the desert chill. He wore a coat and waited for Jose to gather his tools in the Humvee.

  Yesterday, the Behemoth had engine trouble again. It had been having problems of this sort for several weeks. After hours of exhausting work, they had headed to base for the night. He hadn’t told the colonel about the trouble. He didn’t want to speak to the man again until he was a civilian, out from under Wilson’s control.

  Stan took another sip of coffee. He’d told his wife what he’d told Wilson the other day about leaving for John Glen. She’d hardly heard him. All she could think about was Jake in the Detention Center, together with the other “non-patriots.”

  Scowling at the tank’s extra-wide treads, Stan wondered if maybe it was good for Jake to strew in the Detention Center for a while. Maybe he’d been too easy on the boy. Let Jake know that there were consequences to his actions like protesting the President. He didn’t want to leave Jake there, but what harm would there be for a few months?

  The loss of his education, for one thing.

  Stan pried off the coffee’s plastic cover and enjoyed the aroma as it steamed into the cold desert air. He sipped more, as it had cooled just enough for him to enjoy.

  If Jake didn’t care about his education, why should he fret so much about it? The boy was old enough to vote, to drink beer and go away to school. Maybe this was the best thing for him. People didn’t treasure what came too easily. Jake had worked a half-time summer job, but otherwise, Stan had paid for the tuition.

  Stan drained the cup. Who was he trying to kid? Himself, it seemed like. The boy was in trouble. Jake might never get another shot at a college education. The laws were harsh regarding non-patriotic protesting. The longer he stayed in a Detention Center, the heavier the mark on his record. In the eyes of most, it meant that he lacked friends and family. That equated to a loner who likely didn’t love his country. The police watched such “miscreants” and bosses didn’t have to worry about discrimination suits if they failed to hire anyone with a three-stamp mark.

  “I have to get him out of there,” Stan muttered. He went to drink more coffee and discovered the cup was empty. Stan crumbled the Styrofoam in irritation. He almost threw the pieces into the desert. But that would be littering. Instead, he put them in his jacket pocket. He would throw away the cup later on base.

  Frowning, Stan eyed the beast, the Behemoth tank. It was a marvel all right, and this might be the last time he had to deal with it. His chest—

  Stan rubbed his chest, feeling a sore spot. He didn’t want to leave. The entire operational idea behind the Behemoth—

  Stan’s lips peeled back. He remembered Alaska and their M1A2 tanks. They had been good tanks, if too old. The Chinese tri-turreted tanks had played havoc with them. Better armor, better guns, better shells—the enemy had outclassed them in every category.

  The Behemoth was supposed to be the great surprise. It was supposed to be the equalizer, the antidote to enemy numbers. China had far more and better quality tanks. What did that leave America? Not much chance of winning, had been Stan’s answer.

  The tri-turreted tank—the T-66—weighed one hundred tons. The Behemoth was three hundred tons. Stan rubbed his hands. The specs on these things: they told their own story.

  It was fifteen by six by four and mounted 260cm of armor. It had nine auto-cannons, seven auto-machine guns and an onboard radar and AI t
o track enemy missiles and shells. Given enough flight time, the Behemoth could knock down incoming missiles and most shells. Whatever came close had to survive the forty beehives launchers. Those fired tungsten flechettes, a spray of shotgun-like metal that often knocked down or deflected an enemy projectile enough to skew its impact against the heavy armor. It was the super-thick armor and the sheer mass of beehives that was supposed to make the Behemoth more than a big, expensive target.

  The special power plant in the Behemoth was also huge. It had to be to move all that mass. The three-hundred ton machine had magnetically balanced hydraulic suspension and a weapon unlike anything else in the world. Instead of shells, the Behemoth fired a force cannon. Some people called it a rail gun. It was high-tech and it was amazing—if everything worked like it was supposed to. The force cannon needed the Behemoth’s mighty engine to juice it, and the new batteries that stored power for extended shooting.

  The Chinese had many fancy weapons, but Stan bet the Chinese didn’t have anything like the Behemoth. Stan crunched over gravel and he slapped the treads. It would have been interesting fighting in the Behemoth.

  Too bad you’ll never get to use it against them.

  It would be good to get some real payback against the Chinese tankers. There were too many nightmares that included Stan’s friends murdered once again by the T-66 tri-turreted tank.

  “You’re too old for this,” Stan muttered to himself. “Jake did you a favor getting you out of this before the Big One.”

  Then why did he feel so terrible, as if he was running out on his friends and his country during everyone’s darkest hour?

  “Professor!” Jose shouted from the Humvee.

  “What’s wrong?” Stan shouted back.

  Jose stuck his head out of a window. “The colonel just radioed. He wants you back at base and he wants you there now.”

  “Do you know what it’s about?”