Invasion: Colorado ia-3

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Hmm, that’s not very many,” the President said.

  “No sir, but it is our last reserve at the moment.”

  President Sims studied the map, switching his gaze from spot to spot. He sat down, stroking his chin, and his features turned from a scowl to a crooked smile.

  “Ms. Chen,” he said.

  Anna looked up in surprise. David hadn’t addressed her for some time.

  “How will Chairman Hong take this encirclement?” the President asked.

  “I’m not certain I understand the question, Mr. President.”

  “Will he go nuclear to free them?”

  “Doubtful, sir,” Anna said. “He would likely expect a massive nuclear retaliation against the trapped troops. With the destruction of the MC ABMs and a massive SAM depletion, he must realize his trapped formations couldn’t stop American nuclear ballistic missiles.”

  The President nodded thoughtfully.

  “I think Chairman Hong is more concerned about his prestige at home,” Anna said.

  “Explain that,” the President said.

  “If he loses the Third Front to us—if you march those soldiers into captivity—that’s a massive loss of face for him. It might shake the military’s confidence in Hong. It could cause a severe to total loss of power. It might even cause a coup.”

  “I don’t think so,” Director Harold said. He paused to scratch his bald head, his fingernails scraping one of the liver spots. “That’s why Hong has East Lightning. The secret police keep a tight leash on the military.”

  “There may come a time when East Lightning loses confidence in the Chairman,” Anna said. “If we defeat the Chinese here…I have no doubt it will cause terrible political consequences for those in power.”

  “Do you think Hong understands his danger?” the President asked Anna.

  “Not yet, sir,” Anna said. “Given his psychology, I’m sure he still believes he can free his soldiers and continue the conquest of America.”

  President Sims rapped his knuckles on the table. “You raise a good point, Ms. Chen. We haven’t won this cauldron battle yet, far from it, in fact. Alan, tell me more about this division’s worth of soldiers facing the Brazilians. And I want to know the exact capabilities of this ballistic missile reserve.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. First, I’d like to point out that—”

  POINT NEBRASKA-COLORADO-KANSAS

  Master Sergeant Kavanagh and Romo waited behind a log redoubt. No one could tell it was made of timber because a thick blanketing of snow covered the wood from last night. Fifty yards on either side of them ranged other snow-clad bunkers, holding other recon teams. The line stretched for several miles with a little under one thousand soldiers spread out in teams.

  Paul and Romo wore their white suits, with the heaters presently shut off. The sun shone today, around one in the afternoon. The flat white expanse before them was brilliant because of it. Behind the redoubt sat a single snowmobile.

  This line was the forward tripwire against the enemy. There was another line behind them with a greater abundance of Militia troops busily digging trenches and setting up mortar and TOW teams.

  Every hour the Brazilians failed to attack gave High Command time to bring more supplies and more soldiers into position. If the Brazilians hit elsewhere, Paul had orders to pack up his precious supply of Javelins and attack the Brazilian flank.

  Snowmobiles attacking tanks: Paul didn’t think he’d ever heard of that. It sounded desperate. Was America worried after the grand assault? Maybe they were anxious to hold what they’d taken.

  Paul and Romo each sat cross-legged. They had a backgammon set between them. Romo tossed a pair of dice onto the wooden board. The dice bounced and clacked, coming up with seven. They used to play chess, but having to think…Paul and Romo were too tired for that. It was enough to roll the dice and move the pieces around the backgammon board.

  From time to time Paul heard jets. The two of them stopped playing and lay flat. Once they saw the markings. Brazilians jets zoomed low to the ground. They didn’t strafe or unload bombs, so that was something. From far to the rear of their positions came explosions.

  “The Militia line,” Romo said. “I doubt it’s as well-hidden as our post. I hope the jets didn’t bust it up too much.”

  Paul grunted agreement.

  Around four in the afternoon, distant American artillery opened up. It fired from the northwest.

  Paul shut the backgammon game and set it to the side. Romo took out a cigar and smoked it. Paul lay back and put his hands behind his head. He thought about Cheri and watched cigar smoke curl into the clear sky.

  A squawk came from the radio. Paul stirred, acknowledging the call. He discovered that a general spoke to them. The man spoke to the front line of recon teams. Paul had never heard of this general, but the officer ordered them out of the redoubts. He wanted them to head east and attack whatever they found. The Brazilians had struck fifteen miles north of their positions.

  “Yes sir,” Paul said, stowing the radio afterward.

  “Attack?” asked Romo.

  “Let’s mount up,” Paul said.

  They left the redoubt at 4:43 P.M. The recon teams didn’t bunch up. That wasn’t their habit. Each set out east and slowly they spread apart from each other.

  By 5:36, Paul and Romo discovered they were alone in a wide expanse of nothing. It was dark now. They turned on their suits, used night vision and long-range scanning.

  At 7:12, Romo said, “Do you see that?”

  Paul didn’t. It was obvious that between them Romo had the better sight. He was younger so it made sense.

  Romo pointed. Paul drove and after another quarter-mile, he saw a ribbon of movement on the horizon.

  “Hang on,” Paul said. He opened up the throttle.

  At 7:52 P.M., the snowmobile’s engine quit. They slid silently for a time and then came to a halt in the snow. They tried, but couldn’t repair it.

  Finally, Paul focused on the distant movement. “Trucks,” he said.

  “And other supply vehicles,” Romo said.

  “It’ll take an hour to get there on foot. They might be gone by then.”

  “Radio it in.”

  Paul shrugged. He had been about to do that, but he wondered why he bothered. Their side was always running out of smart bombs. Why would it be any different now?

  “Say again,” the air-controller said.

  Paul told him the info, giving the man the coordinates.

  “Do you have a target designator?” the air-controller asked.

  “Of course,” Paul said.

  “Get closer and put it on them.”

  “Let’s go,” Paul told Romo. They left the snowmobile and jogged through the snow. Paul carried a Blowdart launcher and the laser designator. Romo had taken a Javelin.

  At 8:17, the air-controller came back online. “Are they still there?”

  “Yes and no,” Paul said. “The former supply vehicles have moved on, but we’re near another group.”

  “Can you reach them with your laser from where you are?”

  “Yes,” Paul said. “You’re telling me you have smart bombs this time?”

  “Negative,” the air-controller said. “But somebody upstairs must like you. Once you pinpoint them, ballistic missiles will be on their way.”

  Paul knelt and fired the laser at the big trucks moving slowly in the distance. Soon, the ballistic missiles hit the convoy. They started big fires, with belching oil-flames billowing into the starry sky. It was spectacular.

  It took an hour and a quarter of trudging through the snow for Paul and Romo to reach the destruction, which took place on an old dirt road. The ballistic missiles had cut a wide swath of destruction. The two men counted fifty-three vehicles. Some still burned. There were countless dead and wounded. Some soldiers carried QBZ-95 assault rifles.

  Romo pointed out a truck tilted at a crazy angle. Brazilian soldiers in heavy snow coats manhandled huge crates out of
the back of it. The soldiers moved the heavy crates to waiting jeeps. There were seven of them in a line. One jeep already held several of the crates. A soldier climbed into the driver’s side and started the engine.

  Paul and Romo glanced at each other. Without a word, both lay down. Paul readied his M-16, wrapping the carrying strap around one of his hands. He nodded to Romo.

  Romo prepared the Javelin for firing. “Bad odds for us, my friend,” he said.

  “Let’s just get it over with,” Paul said.

  “Si,” Romo whispered. He sighted and fired.

  The Javelin whooshed and sped fast, hitting the piled-high jeep, causing a fantastic explosion. The blast flattened everyone around it, and the explosion started other fantastic blasts—the biggest and worst in the truck.

  Paul barely had time to shove his visor down against the ground. The blast lifted him, tumbling him backward through the air. He struck ground, rolled and rolled like a rag doll. Finally, he came to a stop. He just lay there face down, breathing, glad to be alive.

  What had been in those crates?

  Finally, Paul stirred. He moved his fingers first, his wrists next and then his elbows. Nothing appeared broken. He stood up and checked his suit for breaches, for holes. It was whole. He was okay, if badly bruised.

  “Romo,” he radioed.

  “What was that?” Romo radioed back.

  Paul found his blood brother twenty feet away. After checking him, Paul discovered that Romo had come through all right as well. The assassin was harder to kill than a bad tax.

  From a distance, they examined the former truck with the jeeps. All the vehicles were flipped over or on their sides. None of the Brazilians stirred.

  “I wonder if there’s another one around here that still works,” Romo said.

  They searched and found one ten minutes later. The engine had a bad knock. Taking a final look around, finding nothing left to destroy, the two men climbed into the Brazilian jeep. They headed west for the American lines, hoping that their part in the Brazilian offensive was over.

  PUEBLO, COLORADO

  Marshal Liang paced back and forth in a captured Wells Fargo bank building. As he marched, his bad eye flickered due to the constant tic. He couldn’t help either the pacing or the eye. Disaster stared him in the face.

  The Americans had tricked him, tricked Chairman Hong and—

  No, no, no, it was the perfidious Germans. Chancellor Kleist made a deal with the enemy, freeing too many American soldiers.

  By remaining in Cuba before, the GD had tied down nearly a million American GIs from the East Coast to the Gulf of Mexico. Now those soldiers poured to the Midwest and south along the penetration to Colorado Springs.

  They’ve trapped over two thirds of my Third Front. I can’t believe this is happening.

  Marshal Liang massaged his forehead. He’d been busy while General Zhen attacked the Americans and the Brazilians hammered to break through the encirclement. Both assaults had failed, which was more bad luck.

  During that time, Liang had sent a flurry of orders to his generals. The bulk of Tenth and Fifteenth Armies disengaged from Greater Denver. At the same time, Army Group B in the north gathered assault troops, while the others held the line in Cheyenne and the forward areas near the North Platte River.

  In the south, Liang gathered his garrison troops and those hunting partisans in New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma and southeastern Colorado. From now on, he’d use armored convoys for the supply routes and let the rest of the Occupied Territory fend for itself. Let the partisans roam free for a time in most of those places. After freeing Third Front and with rushed reinforcements from China, he would reoccupy his designated states. Unfortunately, it was taking time to gather the scattered formations. His portion of the Occupied Territory was huge. The good news was that he already had eight divisions here in Pueblo and there would be more pouring in during the next few days.

  The Americans had encircled the Third Front, but they could never hold such a mass of soldiers. Field Marshal Sanchez reconfigured his divisions in order to give him a decisive assault force. The SAF commander understood that the war could go either way now. Liang had begged Chairman Hong for reinforcements from Fourth Front in the east. Marshal Wen didn’t like the idea, but the man understood the terrible need. This was the battle for North America. The Pan-Asian Alliance and the South American Federation could smash the Americans and Canadians for good now if they could free Third Front.

  A little more time and quicker concentrations of troops and I will drive through and resupply my Army Groups.

  “Sir,” said Chief of Staff Ping. “The generals are ready.”

  Liang turned around. His left eye quivered. He nodded, and strode into the other room. Eight generals snapped to attention around the situational map, saluting him. The map showed the area between Pueblo, Colorado Springs and Denver.

  Saluting back, striding to the table, Liang picked up a pointer and began to outline the coming assault.

  The eight divisions around Pueblo would become Army Group C. The burnt-out remains of Tenth and Fifteenth Armies and fast formations from Greeley were altogether Army Group A. These two Army Groups, in a coordinated attack, would hit the American Second Tank Army in and around Colorado Springs.

  “We have five to one odds, gentlemen,” Liang told the generals. “Yes, the enemy still maintains a few of the Behemoths. Fortunately for us, Intelligence has reported that each of the super-tanks has taken severe damage. We have the means to defeat them and the combined-arms skills to crush these over-bold Americans. Gentlemen, they turned the situation against us like skilled jujitsu fighters. They failed to perceive that we are better jujitsu warriors than they are. Now it is our turn to flip them. The Americans have put themselves in a precarious situation and we will use it to our advantage.”

  “When do we begin the assault?” a general asked.

  Liang tapped the map with the pointer. He had read the reports. He knew the Americans raced supplies and extra soldiers to the Second Tank Army. U.S. fighters could dig, and behind trenches, they become stubborn foes indeed. He had to strike before they hardened the defenses. But he needed time to coordinate the attack.

  “Two days,” he said. “In two days, Army Group A will be ready. During those two days, I hope to add another division-worth of troops to Army Group C.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  In the Oval Office, Anna sat to the side of the President. Last night, their lovemaking—how had she ever doubted his affection for her? It had been tender and beautiful. He’d told her how the stress had eaten at him as a man. It had made him, well—

  Anna smiled to herself. There hadn’t been anything impotent about the President last night. He’d been a tiger.

  Now David Sims rocked back and forth in his chair. From time to time, it gave off a wooden squeal, a comfortable noise. He wore his old, Alaska Joint Force Commander uniform, as today was a military meeting.

  Having flown in from the Colorado Penetration, General McGraw sat across from David in a big stuffed chair. There were others here. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs sat on one end of a couch while Director Harold sat on the other end.

  David regarded the group as his Brain Trust. Months ago, they had decided to accept Chancellor Kleist’s offer. And these three had helped David to decide on the risky and so far successful counterattack against Third Front.

  “We’ll make this meeting short,” David said. “General, I know you’re anxious to get back to your men.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. President,” McGraw said. He had a burn mark on his right cheek. The skin around it was red.

  “Alan, you’ve seen the reports,” the President said. “The entire Chinese and Brazilian military is on the move. Our drive has upset every one of their timetables. Marshal Sanchez’s First Front has pulled back from the Platte River Defenses. Even Marshal Wen’s Fourth Front is retreating from the Des Moines Line. Clearly, Marshal Liang is gathering strength in Pueblo. He’s freed mu
ch of Tenth and Fifteenth Armies in the Denver area. We can’t keep things the same on our side if they’re changing up the game on theirs.”

  “Mr. President,” Director Harold said. “I’m anticipating you, perhaps. But are you talking about a general offensive everywhere?”

  “You’re asking about our northern defense lines?” David said.

  “Yes sir,” Harold said.

  “It’s crossed my mind to launch a general offensive, yes,” the President said. “We must push now that the Aggressors are shaken. We mustn’t allow them time to regroup and catch their breath.”

  Max Harold shook his head. “I would advise against a general offensive everywhere, sir. We’ve learned the hard way that the Militia battalions are fragile formations. On the defense behind built-up works, they can fight as hard as most Regular formations. Out in the open in battles of maneuver…” Harold shook his head.

  “What do you think about that?” the President asked Alan.

  “The Director has a cogent point, sir,” Alan said.

  “Hmm,” the President said. “You don’t think the Militia should leave their defense works?”

  “It would be a risky move,” Alan said. “Perhaps it’s even premature.”

  “But we must keep up the pressure,” David said. “If we let the enemy withdraw as he wishes, he can reform at will. Then he can select where to strike back. No. The enemy is on the run. We have to keep him running and unbalanced.”

  “What if this is a massive trick?” Harold asked. “What if these pullbacks are meant to lure our Militiamen out in the open where the Aggressors can cut them to pieces?”

  “I doubt this is a trick,” David said.

  “Sir,” McGraw said. “I think you both have a point. We have to keep the pressure on, but we must move the Militia formations with great care. I suggest there is a way to throw a monkey wrench into the Chinese timetable without risking the Militia. Once we unbalance the Chinese a second time, then we could move the Militia to forward positions, but always in junction with brother Army units and always to prepared defenses posts.”