“Watch this,” Jake said, drawing a sidearm. He touched Goose’s forehead with the barrel. The corporal had lost his helmet.
“How does that feel?” Jake asked.
“Please,” Goose whispered. “Don’t kill me.”
“Set up the machine gun and do what I say,” Jake told him. “That way you live.”
Goose nodded wildly.
The other Militiaman of the machine gun squad watched with wide eyes.
“Hurry it up,” Jake said. He peeked up to scout the situation. More Chinese ran through the cross street, setting up to come here from an old bakery. He could seem them hiding in there, likely figuring out what they were going to do next.
“See the edge of our little wall over there,” Jake said, pointing to the left.
“I see it,” Goose said.
“Slide the gun there and get ready to feed me more ammo. The Chinese are going to cross at the junction, coming straight for us.”
“Set it up there,” Goose repeated. As he did, the Chinese infantry started firing at them from the bakery.
Jake looked behind. Groaning and wounded Militiamen hurried off the street. Most ran away. A few braver, tougher soldiers fired back. Some of the fleeing died with bullets in the back, falling over like sick old men.
A whistle blew. One of the officers had stayed. Seconds later, a grenade flew at the Militia officer, hitting him in the chest, killing him with a flash.
Jake stood up, aiming his M-16. The flyer that had just popped the captain jetted for cover. Jake hit something on it with his shots. The jet quit and the flyer smacked into a three-story building and tumbled down to earth.
Jake ducked down and bullets rattled against the small wall of shelter. It made Goose groan and he clutched his head in panic.
“Is the gun ready?” Jake asked him.
Goose nodded frantically.
Jake threw himself onto his belly, getting behind the .50 caliber. The Chinese would likely get a machine gun set up soon in the bakery. Others would surely try to work around their position, flanking them. He had to start firing, start showing the enemy they had to play it safer. He also needed to show his own side they could hurt the Chinese.
“Okay. Pick it up and set the gun beyond the wall to the side,” Jake said.
“I’ll die if I expose myself,” Goose said.
“Do it!” Jake shouted.
Hunched over, Goose grabbed the barrel. It was crazy. He picked up the front of the M2 Browning and set it with its tripod-mount where Jake had told him. Then Goose dove behind the protective cover, skidding on soil with his elbows.
Lying on the ground, Jake began firing. The loud sound of the heavy caliber bullets reassured him. The big slugs smashed through the bakery walls and exploded the remaining glass. He heard screaming as they hit enemy soldiers. Even though Jake didn’t know it, he grinned from ear to ear. It made Goose shudder to see it.
Something about the sound of the heavy machine gun woke up a few others in the Eleventh CDM Battalion. They crawled to better positions and started firing at the enemy.
From a different direction, fifteen Chinese soldiers charged, shooting from the hip, one of them popping off grenades like a shotgun. All of them wore body armor.
The first grenade hit Jake’s protecting wall, exploding harmlessly. A second one landed beyond the wall, rolling on the street, tumbling like a can of beans. The smaller Militiaman of Jake’s squad shouted in horror. He got up and ran at the grenade.
What’s he doing? Then Jake realized the Militiaman must think he was going to grab it and throw it elsewhere.
“Down!” Jake roared.
The grenade exploded, knocking the Militiaman backward, ending the war for him. He also saved Goose and Jake from any damage.
Goose went utterly pale and he trembled. He also grabbed his M-16, stood and emptied the magazine at the enemy. It did nothing, completely missing everything. Well, it did make the Chinese duck and slow their rush.
“Down!” Jake shouted again, hoarsely. Then he had no more time to shout. He swiveled the heavy machine gun and pressed his thumbs on the butterfly triggers. He mowed down the stalled attackers, starting with the grenade-launching whore. The big .50 caliber bullets tore through Chinese body armor as if it was paper. Some of those bastards wore schematic visors, too, but it didn’t help them any, now did it?
When Jake ran out of ammo, Goose loaded more. Soon Jake worked over the dead Chinese on the street, making sure they weren’t faking.
It was the opening of the battle for Castle Rock—the gate the Chinese needed so they could drive for Greater Denver. It was also the Eleventh CDM Battalion’s baptism by fire, and the first time Jake and Goose worked together as a team.
THIRD FRONT HQ, COLORADO
Marshal Liang sat in his Command Center, staring up at a huge screen. Around the room, officers sat at their consoles. Near Liang sat General Ping. He appeared to be an unassuming staff officer, with utterly regular features and glasses. The man was unable to use contact lenses and had feared corrective surgery. There was nothing unassuming about Ping’s mind, though. He was Liang’s most brilliant assistant and most trusted confidant.
“Tonight we draw the noose tight,” Liang said.
General Ping nodded. He also watched the big screen. It showed a satellite image of Greater Denver and the Southern Rockies to the west. I-70 was highlighted in red, a thin ribbon that stretched away from the built-up urban area and went left across the screen.
Marshal Liang wore no smiles tonight. With the initial ground assaults, he had knocked on Greater Denver’s front door. The Tenth and Fifteenth Armies surged toward the city. Artillery poured destruction upon the Americans. Eagle Team flyers murdered thousands. The assault divisions swarmed to the attack, taking heavy losses but pushing the enemy perimeter ever backward.
Now, tonight, he would unleash his backdoor surprise that would guarantee him victory.
I-70 was an engineering marvel of former American ingenuity. The freeway passed over many bridges, through famous tunnels and mountain gorges. Several well-placed missiles and bombs at key locales would slow traffic to a mule-laden trickle. Without I-70 and the rail lines next to it, and once he sealed off the urban area in the north to Cheyenne, Wyoming, the Rockies would become a logistical nightmare for the defending Americans. Knowing they were cut off from aid and they were destined for death or the prisoner-of-war camps in Northern Mexico, the American defenders would lose heart, wilt and surrender in bitterest defeat.
The key to the Chairman’s order therefore was to strike at I-70 with their total force now, at the very beginning of the struggle. One of the staff officers had suggested nuclear weapons, but that was too risky. The Americans might use nuclear weapons in response. Liang needed far more tac-lasers and MC ABMs before he would feel comfortable he could fend off an American nuclear attack.
Tonight he would do this the conventional way. He would watch the offensive’s progress through high-flying AWACS planes and recon drones. Ping and he would watch on the big screen in the Command Center.
“It is time,” Liang said. “Tell the air traffic controllers to give the orders.”
FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLE AREA, COLORADO
Captain Tzu piloted one of the big Heron bombers of the mass Chinese assault on I-70’s Eisenhower Tunnel. He had lifted off the main airfield in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The gathering of air power tonight reminded him of the opening days of the invasion.
“All this to destroy a freeway tunnel?” his navigator asked. “This is overkill.”
With his hands on the controls, Tzu glanced outside. The Rockies were beautiful, a range of rugged, snow-covered mountains. In the moonlight, they looked majestic, like a land of wonder. If they had to bail out, though, he would never see home again. Wolves lived down there and American cougars and grizzly bears. He had heard stories, terrible tales. If the wild beasts didn’t kill them, the snow and trackless mountains would ensure they starved to death.
“The Americans are in for a horrible surprise,” the navigator said.
Tzu turned to the navigator with a start. He wiped his forehead, glad to be out of his daze. He needed to stop thinking about being shot down in the amazing but deadly mountain-land. Yes, he hoped the navigator was right. He hoped, but…this one didn’t feel right. Why did command believe so many planes were needed just to take out a single tunnel? This kind of precision night attack was better suited to the Ghosts, the S-13s.
Captain Tzu glanced out the window again. In every direction loomed the terrible and gloriously beautiful Rocky Mountains. The stars blazed with light and the moon…
“I wish we could fly there,” Tzu said, pointing at the moon.
“Eh?” asked the navigator.
“Look at the moon.”
“Tzu, can’t you ever keep your mind on task? Look at the radar. Look at the number of planes ahead of us. This is an audacious operation. We’re making history.”
Tzu tore his gaze from the cratered, captivating moon. He did look at the radar, and he recalled what the briefing officer had told them. Tonight, China massed its air power to strip the Americans of hope.
Twenty-seven EW Anchors led the way. Behind followed three hundred and seventy-nine Heron bombers, nearly four hundred machines. There were no fighters tonight. Most of those made strikes against Denver, occupying the American air there, keeping enemy eyes fixed elsewhere. Fortunately, no Chinese pilot would actually go in that deeply to I-70. Drones and missiles would do that. The Americans must have some air defense present, but the enemy would not have nearly enough to stop this mass. The greatest danger—
Tzu looked up at the moon, delighting in the pockmarks, the darker areas.
“Captain!” the navigator said.
“I’m thinking about the Reflex interceptors,” Tzu said.
The navigator frowned. “Do not jinx us, Captain. It is better not to speak about them.”
“They must be out in numbers tonight.”
“Please.”
Captain Tzu glanced at his navigator. The man looked sick with worry. He nodded. Pilots and navigators were a superstitious lot. Do not speak about Reflex interceptors because maybe they could hear you talk about them and would notice what was going on. It was a foolish idea, but difficult not to believe in his heart.
“What’s our reading?” Tzu asked. “We should be ready to unload our first cargo soon.”
The navigator went to work and soon he appeared to have forgotten about the Reflex, long-distance, laser-bouncing interceptors.
CHEYENNE, WYOMING
U.S. Army Group West Headquarters was a bustle of activity and noise. Officers spoke into phones. Coffee steamed from Styrofoam cups and operators scanned their screens. It all took place in a large chamber, with nearly fifty people present.
Big Tom McGraw tapped his fingers on a console. Pilots and drone operators had just beaten off a night attack on Denver. The Chinese had stormed the city in force, yet according to reports, they had done little damage.
He didn’t understand these smash-your-way-in assaults so far. It seemed too wasteful of Chinese assets. It had given the enemy ground fast, and it had moved the city battle forward sooner than he wanted. He understood why so few enemy tanks had appeared. The Chinese had also unleashed their northern offensive at the same time, and needed them there on the open plains.
They’re trying to do two things at once. They heading north and they’re trying to swamp us here, and they’re coming damn near to it, too.
Would he get the East Coast reinforcements in time? It almost felt as if the Chinese knew his plan. They were trying to finish the war now. Something troubled him, and he couldn’t quite place his finger on it.
Scowling, General McGraw continued to tap the console.
“Sir,” the Air Chief said.
McGraw looked up. The Joint Forces Air Component Commander, JFACC or Air Chief for short, was a slender man and wore a silk scarf around his neck. The general reminded Tom of the early pilots of WWI, those daredevils of the sky. The Air Chief didn’t look reckless now. He looked worried.
Is this why I’ve been feeling nervous all night?
“What do you have for me?” McGraw asked.
The Air Chief motioned to an Air Force operator and then beckoned McGraw to a desk screen. “I’d like you to look at this, sir.”
McGraw strode to the desk screen, staring down at it. Instead of a churning stomach, he felt relief. Finally, I know what my opposite number is up, too. You’re a clever bastard, Liang.
Looking up at the Air Chief, McGraw said, “Liang identified our weak link. Now we know why their fighter-bombers swarmed Denver and did so little damage. Their heavies are out trying to kill our supply artery. Better alert the I-70 air-defenses, if they aren’t already.”
“Sir, have you noticed the number of Heron stand-off bombers? If one of their missiles reaches one of the key tunnel entrances—I can’t guarantee you that won’t happen. These numbers—the Chinese have caught us with our pants down.”
“I understand the problem,” McGraw said. “Now tell me how you’re fixing it.”
“We’re scrambling fighters and drones, sir, but they’re not going to reach some of these places soon enough. We’re also lofting more Reflex interceptors. I’m sure you know that those take time to get into strategic laser position. We can make the Chinese suffer later, when they’re running for home. Stopping all of them now from hitting I-70…”
The Air Chief shook his head.
McGraw’s jaw muscles bulged. If the Chinese blasted enough tunnel entrances and bridges, it would be a total disaster. There were sufficient assets protecting I-70 to stop Ghosts and even a mid-size attack, but this—
McGraw remembered something, and whirled around. “Get me on the horn with Colonel Higgins of the Behemoth Regiment. We may have an answer for this.”
FORWARD EDGE OF THE BATTLE AREA, COLORADO
The first launch order came. Captain Tzu had been waiting for it the last two minutes. This was the reason his bomber had lumbered off the runway earlier tonight. With a decisive movement, he yanked a lever.
The entire Heron shook. A moment later, the bomber lifted higher. Outside, he knew, the clamps on the pylons had released, and a big Goshawk drone had dropped away. It fell fifty meters before the turbojets kicked on.
From other Herons dropped more drones. A few winked silvery in the moonlight. Their turbojets belched orange flares into the night. It was a sign of strength, of coming destruction.
Tzu decreased airspeed. He wasn’t looking at the moon anymore, but at the drones. Their Goshawk climbed higher and well ahead of them. It was remote-controlled, likely from a trailer in Pueblo, Colorado. The many drones gathered in their destination-teams. They would be the aircraft to zero in on I-70. The drones would battle their way in if they had to, hammering bridges and tunnel entrances.
Licking his lips, Tzu noticed faster, quicker drones flittering through the darkness. They were UCAV fighter drones. Other Herons had released them together with the Goshawks. Those Herons would race ahead of the other bombers, putting themselves between the faster advancing drones and the still heavily laden bombers. The forward Herons would act as decoys, since they didn’t carry missiles.
Over five hundred drones bored in toward I-70. The destination teams had various targets: bridges, tunnels or hairpin turns on the freeway in the deepest gorges. Others would hit the rail line.
Now that the drones were on their way, Tzu increased speed again. The remaining Herons had a second task. They carried ARMs to destroy American radar stations and air-to-ground missiles if the inconceivable happened and the drones failed. The briefing officer had told them Marshal Liang himself had planned the operation. Everyone knew that Liang left nothing to chance.
Soon, the navigator informed Tzu that the drones had passed the EW Anchors. Later still, the navigator told him the Anchors had begun jamming the Americans. What one couldn’t
see, one couldn’t kill. This electronic cover would allow the Goshawks to penetrate the American air-defense zone too deeply for the Americans to stop such a mass assault.
Tzu heard the navigator rhapsodize about the plan, but he no longer cared about the drones. The captain looked out the window at the bright moon. The idea of Reflex interceptors high in the atmosphere, ready to bounce strategic-strength lasers—that’s what had him worried now.
BEHEMOTH TANK PARK, COLORADO
A panting Colonel Higgins strode into in the command post—CP—of the tank park’s air-defense-net center. He’d come running from bed after hearing klaxons ringing several minutes ago.
The CP captain had just informed him that Chinese air assets were approaching fast. There were nearly one hundred heavy drones headed this way.
Have they discovered my Behemoths? Are they trying to knock them out?
Stan inhaled deeply, trying to get his breath back. He’d run through snow so thick his boots had disappeared each time, then raced down a flight of stairs to get here.
The air-defense CP was underground with reinforced concrete overhead. Stan’s seventeen Behemoth tanks were hidden by the latest anti-radar netting. Several weeks ago, he’d used bulldozers to create big revetments for them. It meant the three hundred ton tanks were half-buried, giving them greater protection and turning them into gigantic pillboxes.
One hundred heavy drones—the Chinese must want my tanks.
Stan didn’t intend to do ground fighting from the holes. The idea the Chinese would send tanks or IFVs into the mountains struck him as ludicrous. He’d simply wanted to do everything he could to protect them from enemy air assaults, and now he was glad he had.
How did they find out about the Behemoths?
“Sir,” the CP captain said. “I have General McGraw on the secure line. He wants to talk to you.”
In the dim green light of the CP, Stan’s shoes clicked on the tiles. He picked up the proffered receiver. “General, this is Colonel Higgins speaking.”
“Stan, old son, the Chinese snookered us.”
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