Invasion: California

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Those are missiles, sir,” the air controller whispered.

  “Burn them. Burn them now.”

  “Do you know what they are, sir?”

  “I don’t give a damn what they are. I want them taken out before they hit.”

  FRESNO, CALIFORNIA

  Major Romanov’s throat had turned dry. NORAD gave the order and he took his plane back up.

  He was glad his hands didn’t shake. The other two interceptors headed back to base in Fresno. Their mirrors had degraded too much. The mirrors wouldn’t reflect with a reasonable chance of accuracy. The calibrations needed due to distance were far too fine.

  Romanov blinked and brought his aircraft into perfect alignment. The stars were bright up here and there were no clouds, just him and endless solitude. He radioed NORAD. They were going to use his mirror now. If the beam burned too strongly or if mirror had too many microscopic flaws—

  As he held his position, Major Romanov began to pray, something he hadn’t done in years.

  DONNER PASS, CALIFORNIA

  The first Chinese air-to-ground missile hugged the terrain. It expelled chaff and radio-emitting decoys. Twice a laser flashed by it, hitting the wrong target or missing by just enough.

  Then the missile closed on its target. Its onboard computer adjusted the flight path, pitching the missile up. At precisely the height to give it maximum efficiency the nuclear warhead ignited. A fireball consumed the rail line and bridge and it tore into Donner Pass, causing rocks and boulders to fly and fall. A convoy was using the road, twenty huge transport trucks bringing M1A3 tanks to Los Angeles. The haulers and tanks crumpled and exploded in the fireball and blast, none of the drivers surviving. It was the first direct successful Chinese nuclear assault upon America.

  FRESNO, CALIFORNIA

  “What is the status of your mirror?” the NORAD colonel asked Major Romanov.

  The major sat blinking in astonishment. The Chinese had exploded a nuke.

  “I repeat—”

  “It’s operational,” Romanov said.

  “Say again.”

  “My mirror is operational. Go ahead, use it.”

  Romanov was lying. They’re using nukes on us. He was lying, but he knew his duty. He was on the rampart defending his country. There was no one else to do this, just him.

  “The laser is ready for firing,” the Fresno station chief reported.

  “Fire,” the NORAD colonel said.

  BECKWOURTH PASS, CALIFORNIA

  The second Chinese air-to-ground missile streaked toward target. There was no more chaff in its container and it had deployed every decoy. In another fifty-eight seconds, it would reach ignition point.

  Then the pulse-laser from Major Romanov’s heavily degraded reflex mirror struck the Chinese missile. The missile exploded, but the nuclear warhead did not detonate. It tumbled earthward, unexploded, saving the Beckwourth Pass for America’s use.

  FRESNO, CALIFORNIA

  “You’re a brave man, Major Romanov,” the NORAD colonel said. “I saw the degradation percentage regarding your mirror. It’s a miracle your plane is still intact.”

  “Yes, sir,” Romanov said. Sweat bathed his face and he was shaking. He couldn’t believe he was still alive or that they’d destroyed the second missile.

  “Return to base,” the NORAD colonel said.

  “Yes, sir,” Romanov said. He peered out of the window at the stars above. “Thanks, God. I appreciate that.” Then he banked the giant interceptor, heading back for Fresno.

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Anna Chen was back in her CIA cubicle the next morning, searching and compiling data on the Chinese command structure and on their marshals.

  She’d received information about the nuclear strike last night, and it filled her with fear. The Chinese had overcome their inhibition against using the ultimate weapon. Now she wondered where it would lead. Massive nuclear usage…it could destroy the civilized world.

  Yes, Director Levin had been correct in one sense. The American nuclear missiles had saved the situation in the Bay Area. But what would be the future cost? This attack on the Sierra Nevada Passes—nuclear employment would likely escalate now. It was the human pattern. Levin had won a battle but may have caused the loss of the war and the world.

  Levin seldom spoke to her now and he no longer confided in her. Should she have backed him on his wish to use nuclear weapons?

  “No,” she whispered. She had to follow her conscience. She would be no good to anybody, least of all to herself, if she went against what she knew was right.

  Anna sipped tea and continued to read. After several hours of intense study, it began to dawn on her that Marshal Nung was an outcast among the others in Chinese High Command. He seemed very Old Russian in his approach to military problems.

  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.

  He is their Russian. No, he is a German-practicing theorist of blitzkrieg, but with a Chinese disregard for materiel losses.

  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.

  ANAHEIM, CALIFORNIA

  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 w
ere 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 hard.”

  “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.

  “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 Chine
se 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.”