He’d read some reports on the Venezuelans. They were warm-weather soldiers and had done well this summer. Likely, none of them had ever faced a winter like this. Maybe as importantly, Venezuelans didn’t feel the same about the war as the imperialistic Brazilians. Venezuelan hearts weren’t in the fight, and that made a huge difference sitting in a trench in the middle of America during an Ice Age storm and a violent assault by troops burning for serious payback.
“I don’t get it,” Kline said. “Who are those other soldiers attacking?”
In silence, Paul watched the dark horde. He had listened to the SOCOM captain during the briefing session. This was Operation Saturn. Of course, Paul had noticed the build-up of American troops for weeks. This part of the American defenses had crawled with new troops: Militiamen, Canadians, East Coast regulars and the hardened veterans of the earlier Midwestern battles.
“Those soldiers out there,” Paul said, “they’re not attacking.” Those boys were running away. As he scanned back and forth, Paul couldn’t spot a gun on them.
“They’re running away?” Kline asked.
Romo chuckled.
“Did I say something stupid?” Kline asked. He had a chip on his shoulder and was too aggressive. It seemed to Paul that Romo liked needling the new man.
“Our assault troops must have hit them pretty hard,” Paul said. “Maybe it’s our new Sleeper mines. They must be better than we were told.”
“The Venezuelans are coming our way,” Kline said, and for once, he sounded nervous.
Paul was well aware of where the enemy soldiers ran. The three of them were up on this small knoll behind enemy lines. This part of Nebraska didn’t have any real hills and nothing like the Rockies. At the bottom of the hill to the south were hidden three white snowmobiles with plenty of gas and other supplies.
“Don’t worry,” Paul said. “They’re not going to run all the way here. They’ll fall down from exhaustion long before that.”
Sergeant Kline swore soon after. “I don’t believe this. They just keep on coming. It looks as if the whole land is moving. There must be thousands, tens of thousands of them running away, which means running toward us.”
Paul silently agreed. What had caused this? Had it been the new Sleeper mines? They were deadly landmines fired into position by artillery tubes. Or had the Venezuelans buckled in the face of the assault troops launched across the ice? Before he left on this mission, Paul had seen the massed artillery. In his opinion, the government must have robbed every other park and site to put so many guns in one place. He actually pitied the poor slobs down there. He had listened in to some SOCOM chatter. The Venezuelans were sick of the cold and getting worried about reports of massing North Americans. Probably those boys sprinting across the snow just wanted to go home to their sweat señoritas.
“We need to call down an air strike,” Kline said. “This is the perfect moment to hit them.”
Paul didn’t say anything to that. He watched the masses of men running away from the flashes on the horizon. The enemy soldiers were doing a bunk, all right. Let them run, was his feeling.
“He is right,” Romo told Paul.
“Yeah?” asked Paul.
“They are scared now,” Romo said, “and out in the open. In time, they will regain their courage and their sanity. Now they are easy targets for a napalm strike.”
Paul stared at Romo. Like him, the man lay chest-first on the snow, looking like a white-armored version of the old Iron Man movies. Paul could well imagine Romo lifting a palm and firing a magnetic repulser ray. With these suit heaters, they could lie in the snow all day. Too bad they couldn’t fly.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a cold-hearted bastard?” Paul asked his friend.
“I have heard it said, yes,” Romo replied.
Paul had a bad taste in his mouth. Despite that, he knew Romo was right. With his suit, he radioed in to SOCOM HQ. He told them what he saw and requested an air strike.
“Can you pinpoint their location?” the operator asked.
“Yes,” Paul said, feeling even more dispirited than before.
Romo had his laser rangefinder and locator out. He aimed it at the mass of running soldiers and fired an invisible beam.
“We have target acquisition,” the operator said. “The drones will be in position in three minutes.”
Paul muttered a reply, and then he waited.
“Do not feel bad,” Romo told him. “Those soldiers running down there, they raped your women and killed civilians this summer. If you let them live, they will do it again later. The time to kill a wolf is when he is running away, not when he is full of fight.”
Paul thought about the little girl with red shoes hanging from a tree. Venezuelans might have done that.
“War’s a dirty business,” he said.
“We are good at it,” Romo said. “It is why we see so many evil things. Others in our position, they would be dead by now.”
“I guess so,” Paul said.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kline asked. “This is our job.”
Paul didn’t answer as he waited for the inevitable. A few minutes later, American heavy drones appeared. They roared low over the fleeing soldiers.
Paul could swear he heard groans, the mass sound of frightened men looking up at their doom.
Napalm canisters tumbled from the bellies of the fast-flying drones. The canisters hit the snow and sheets of flame appeared, roaring into life. The napalm roasted hundreds. More canisters tumbled toward the fleeing and now screaming mass of humanity.
Paul watched the slaughter. He didn’t know if they were conscripts or volunteers. The Brazilians ran the show in the South American Federation. The Venezuelan soldiers down there were paying for Brazilian misdeeds. They were paying the butcher’s bill in roasted flesh.
The napalm fires roared across the plain. Thousands of twisting, flopping humans became living torches. It was nauseating, but Paul supposed Romo was right. The sooner they killed enough enemies, the sooner this war would be over. What did it matter how it happened?
Maybe my time for soldiering is up. I want to defend my country, sure. I don’t want to butcher fellow human beings like this anymore, though.
“Let’s go,” Paul said, as he climbed to his feet.
On the formerly snowy plains in the distance, the napalm fires raged unchecked. Black smoke billowed skyward. Was Romo right? Had those same soldiers butchered innocent American civilians?
Yeah, he’s right. I have to believe it. He has to be for them to deserve that.
Paul left deep tracks in the snow. These suits were great except for one thing: they were heavy. Heavy wasn’t good for wading through snowdrifts.
Soon enough, Paul climbed onto his snowmobile and used a gloved thumb on the starter. The engine turned over and revved into life.
“You guys ready?” he asked over the radio.
Two positive answers sounded in his helmet. Paul twisted the throttle and the small machine lurched forward. He listened to it whine as he plowed through this lonely land. There were folds in the terrain and hidden rivers and gullies. He kept it at fifteen miles per hour. That was slow going, but at night like this, it made sense to be careful. They kept the headlights off and used their night vision visors.
After two miles, Romo spoke. “Where’s Kline?”
Paul glanced back. A glimmer of dawn broke on the eastern horizon. The American guns still flashed and boomed to the north. He saw Romo on his snowmobile, but there was no sign of Sergeant Kline.
“What happened to him?” Paul asked.
Romo shook his head.
“Sergeant Kline,” Paul said over the radio. He didn’t get an answer. “We can’t leave him out here.”
“Si,” Romo said.
Paul twisted the throttle and turned around. In the glimmer of dawn, they backtracked. A half mile later, they found him. Kline had strayed off the path following Paul and Romo. That was against regulations. They went
single file so the enemy wouldn’t know how many of them were out there. Kline hadn’t gone too wide, but wide enough.
The soldier lay at the bottom of a gully. His machine had broken through a crust of snow hiding a narrow ravine. The sergeant lay on his stomach at the bottom with his head through some ice.
With a sick feeling, Paul climbed down the ravine. He slipped and slid, bumping his way down until his heavy boots cracked through the ice and hit underwater rocks.
He cursed, and he dragged Kline out of the icy stream. He unbuckled the helmet. Water flowed out as he removed it.
“How is he?” Romo asked from the upper bank.
Paul took off his helmet. It was freezing down here in the shadows of the gully. He checked for broken bones. The neck seemed good, but the man didn’t breathe.
Paul gave him mouth to mouth. He unsnapped the man’s body armor, pushed on the chest and hammered against the heart with his fist. Nothing helped. Sergeant Kline was dead. He must have drowned to death.
“What a stupid way to die,” Romo said.
Paul glared up at his blood bother. Would Romo have preferred to burn to death like the unlucky Venezuelans?
“Help me carry him to my machine,” Paul said.
Romo took his time answering.
“I don’t know how the Apaches did it,” Paul said, “but we’re not leaving his corpse for the enemy.”
“No,” Romo said. “You are right.”
It took work, and Paul panted by the time he reached his snowmobile. He tied the body to the back. What a worthless war. The Chinese, the Brazilians and their proxies—they should have all stayed home.
“You know what I think,” Paul said.
“Only some of the time,” Romo said.
“We have to make it hard and bloody and show everyone you don’t mess with the United States of America. This was a stupid way to die. You were right about that.”
“You are glad now we burned the Venezuelans?”
Paul stared north. “I didn’t start this war. All I know is that I’m going to do whatever it takes to finish it.”
“Si,” Romo said. “We will finish it.”
The two men roared away on their snowmobiles, heading for the pickup point.
NORTHEASTERN EDGE OF THE STATE, COLORADO
Colonel Higgins sat in the commander’s seat of his Behemoth tank. Computer screens faced him on three sides. A soft blue light glowed in the compartment. Outside, snow swirled, reducing visibility but doing nothing to slow the assault.
It was the third day of the great attack when Army Group Washington made its move. A screen of M2 Bradleys led the way, followed by M1A3 Abrams tanks. Stan followed them by a kilometer.
In this, General McGraw and Stan had agreed. Hit the Chinese hard from the beginning. Annihilate them fast with the Behemoths, with everything new that America possessed.
The giant tank churned over the flat, frozen landscape. This was the perfect territory to use the rail-guns. Almost, Stan felt pity for any Chinese tankers daring to take him on now.
“I’m going up,” Stan told the others.
Jose made a show of shivering.
Stan understood. None of the crew liked it when he opened the hatch. Cold air seeped down through the opening, stealing all the carefully built up warmth in the compartment. Despite the understanding, Stan had a duty to the Regiment. He could see a lot with his computer screens, but sometimes, he needed to see a thing with his own eyes.
He stood, shoved a woolen hat on his head so it covered his ears. He wrapped a scarf around his neck and zipped his coat all the way. Only then did he open the hatch and thrust his head and shoulders into the snowstorm.
Shivering from a blast of icy air, Stan hastily put on goggles. It was crazy out here, a real Arctic blizzard. Ominous gray clouds scudded low across the sky, while snow swirled all around. Behind him, he saw the giant, looming shapes of other Behemoth tanks. Visibility was practically zero. That didn’t matter. Now was the time to catch the Chinese, hopefully, by surprise.
Stan forced himself to stay up here out in the open, to feel the cold. This cold was an ally. They might gain a march on the enemy and hit the Chinese before they knew what was happening. Hit hard, hit from the start and gain as much ground as possible while the enemy was surprised.
Finally, Stan couldn’t take the freezing anymore. He slid inside and banged the hatch shut behind him. The heaters poured warmth out of the vents. He put his face in front of one and let it thaw him out.
“I have a message for you, Colonel,” Jose said.
Stan moved to his commander’s seat and put on a pair of headphones. “Colonel Higgins, here,” he said.
“Stan, this is Tom McGraw.”
“General,” Stan replied, waiting.
“SOCOM has some information for you. There are two divisions of T-66s heading to block your passage.”
“How did the Chinese find out we’re here?” Stan asked.
“I’m sure we’re not the only side with ground-based observers,” McGraw said.
“T-66s you said?” Stan asked.
“That’s right. Maybe the Chinese think they can slip those monsters in close and blast your tanks at close range. It’s the 14th and 92nd Armored Divisions. Those are top-notch formations, Colonel. Intelligence believes they have three hundred T-66s, and plenty of artillery.”
Stan tapped one of his screens.
“Speak to me, Colonel,” McGraw said. “Can your rail-guns fire at extreme range in this weather?”
“Clear weather would be better,” Stan said.
“I hope you’re not avoiding the issue, Colonel.”
“No sir,” Stan said. He’d just looked outside. Clearly, this wasn’t long-range weather.
“We want to keep the drive alive,” McGraw said. “We don’t want to stop for anything. You have a lot of ground to cover before you reach Colorado Springs.”
“Understood, General,” Stan said. “Hit hard and hit fast.”
“We also want to keep your tanks around for the duration,” McGraw said.
“Do you know how far the Chinese divisions are from us?” Stan asked.
“Less than twelve miles,” McGraw said. “The Chinese have reacted fast to our penetration.”
Stan’s gut tightened. Why can’t it be easy for once? In clear weather, he could have already engaged and destroyed these T-66s. The enemy was already too close, and that was due to the blizzard.
“General, it’s time to ram this attack down their throats. I’m want the forward units—”
“The Bradleys?” asked McGraw.
“Yes sir,” Stan said. “I want them to remain in position ahead of us. They’re going to spot for me.”
“You believe the Chinese will expect you to back off?”
“I think anyone would back off in this weather,” Stan said. “Sane people wouldn’t be out trying to march in a blizzard, let alone fight. We’re going to have to trust our thermal sights and radar tracking.”
“God help you,” McGraw said.
“Yes, I hope He does, sir.”
“And good luck, Professor. Kill them all.”
That’s exactly what Stan planned to do.
GRID NINE-FIVE-EIGHT, COLORADO
First Rank Wang shivered uncontrollably. He commanded T-66 Number Two of Eighth Troop. His was the last tri-turreted tank in the unit. Originally, there had been three.
Months of war and countless hundreds of miles advancing had worn down his great machine. One turret didn’t work anymore. The tracks needed changing again and the crew was dog-tired. Worse by far, the main heating unit didn’t work. It meant the tank was an icebox inside.
As he sat in his commander’s chair, Wang wore a winter parka and a woolen ski mask. His breath puffed white and the controls were freezing to the touch. Putting on a pair of goggles, he poked his head outside the main turret. Snow swirled in a vast sheet of blindness.
He’d never seen it like this. This was real Ice Ag
e weather. He glanced around. Other T-66s plowed into the shrieking wind. To Wang, it almost seemed as if the one hundred ton tanks leaned into the storm.
It was crazy to fight in this kind of weather. They’d been moving to intercept American tankers. He found it difficult to believe the Americans drove south to attack now. For months, they had retreated before Chinese might. Sometimes, a few of the braver Americans fought their tanks. Each time the Americans did so, they died uselessly. Most of the time the Americans ran away. First Rank Wang was used to Americans running away.
He could well understand why. The T-66 possessed two hundred centimeters of Tai composite armor in front. Normally, such a tank had three turrets and three cannons. Each could traverse 180 degrees and each had a huge, 175mm smoothbore gun. They fired hypervelocity rocket-assisted shells against enemy tanks, and HEAT rounds for lesser targets. Six 30mm auto-cannons and twenty beehive flechette defenders made the tank sudden death for any infantryman out in the open. Linked with the defense radar net, the massed T-66s could knock down or deflect most enemy shells. The main gun tubes could also fire Red Arrow anti-air rounds, making it a deadly proposition for attack craft trying to take it on. The tank had a magnetically balanced hydraulic suspension, so Wang’s gunners could fire with astounding accuracy while moving at top speed.
It’s true the Americans had a better tank in the Behemoth. But better was a relative term. China fielded thousands of T-66s. Three tri-turreted tanks were a match for one Behemoth, he believed. Army Intelligence said the Americans only possessed one hundred of their supposedly better tank.
Despite the terrible weather, Wang grinned. Americans could fight stubbornly behind buildings and while in trenches. But in his experience, he’d learned that Americans could not fight out in the open. There, they died. It’s why the Americans had been retreating for months on end.
“First Rank,” the radar specialist called.
Wang could hardly hear the man. He pulled his head in. Everyone wore gloves or mittens and great bundled garments. Their cold breath threatened to fog the gauges. They needed to get the heater fixed. That was even more important than getting the broken turret repaired. How could a soldier fight if his teeth were chattering all the time?
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