Invasion: Alaska (40 page)

“They must have spotted us,” said Stan. “Quick, Hank, we need to move to a new location.”

Hank started the Abrams as Stan got on the radio, telling his other crews the news. It took ten gallons of JP8 jet fuel to start each tank. The M1A2’s gas turbine was a hog, but it was powerful and could drive the tank fast.

Soon, they clanked away in reverse as more enemy rounds slammed nearby. A direct hit would take out the tank. The heaviest armor was on the front, it was somewhat thinner on the sides. The rear had a tank’s lightest armor. Just like enemy Marauder tanks, they had composite armor. Theirs was Chobham RH Armor, with depleted uranium strike plates and Kevlar mesh.

In several minutes, the loud booms and shrapnel peppering stopped and the tank no longer shook from nearby impacts.

“Report,” said Stan to the other tankers.

“I can’t see anything without radar expect these shells falling on us,” a tank commander said.

Stan acknowledged that. The mountains and trees badly cut down visibility.

“Can you hear that?” asked Jose, who was down below Stan and to his right in the gunner’s seat.

It was roomier in the M1A2 than in just about any tank in existence. There used to be four crewmen when the Abrams first came out. In old German tanks like the Panther, there had been five men inside. Russian tanks used to be so cramped that tankers were only chosen from among shorter men. Stan and Jose had used the extra space in the Abrams to add shells. The usual ammo allotment was kept below in special chambers so the rounds wouldn’t cook off if they were hit. It was a risk storing extra shells in the main compartment, but Stan had decided to take the risk. He hadn’t been too sanguine about their chances for a quick re-supply of shells once the battle started.

Jose touched a hand to his headphones. He was listening to amplifiers outside the Abrams. He looked up over his shoulder at Stan.

“The Chinese are attacking,” said Jose. “With tanks,” he added.

“What kind of tanks?” Stan asked. “Is anyone reporting that?” There was a telephone attached by a cord outside the tank. It was there for the militiamen spotters to tell them what they saw.

Jose shrugged. “No one is saying, but I’m sure we’re going to find out soon enough.”

MUKDEN, P.R.C.

The technicians had forced a cocktail of stimulants down Captain Han’s throat. He was awake and back on his chair, with the VR helmet strapped on tight and his twitch gloves ready.

“What happened?” Han whispered. He felt disoriented. With his VR helmet’s visor, he saw the snowy ground and the looming slopes on the road ahead of him. American tracer-rounds already bounced off his armored skin. Behind him, he saw, with a backward-viewing camera, crouched naval infantrymen moving out of a wall of smoke. The soldiers wore dinylon body-armor and cradled heavy assault rifles, SPET-tubes and RPGs.

“You’re leading the attack,” a tech informed Han.

Han nodded as orders rattled in his earpiece. He was part of the Battle-Net attacking the American position, with the 160th and 322nd Naval Infantry Battalions and two companies of light drone tanks. The enemy seemed to be ready for them, as the Americans had held even after a fierce artillery pounding. It was the reason for the drone tanks, the first vehicle of the pack under Han’s remote control. These days, Chinese battle doctrine called for drone tanks leading overrun assaults. They were suicide-tanks, meant to absorb the worst enemy punishment.

“Please, no more shocks,” Han told the techs in the underground chamber with him.

“You will face a severe shock if your tank is destroyed,” a tech said near his ear. “But we have turned off the skin-strike shock-responder. Too many bullets are bouncing off your armor.”

“No!” shouted Han. “Why are you shocking me for dying, for my tank’s destruction? I’m on a suicide mission. It’s the reason our side is using drones.”

“Concentrate on your battlefield task,” a tech advised, “and do not quibble about drone doctrine.”

Han breathed heavily as he began to fear. He dreaded the idea of receiving another ‘death-shock.’ With a roar of anguish, he tore off his VR helmet and stood up in the pit. It was disorienting. The two techs at the boards swiveled around in their chairs, one on either side of him. Han’s head and shoulders were higher than the floor. The rest of his body was sunken in the pit.

“I’m finished with this,” said Han.

The shorter tech scowled. “If we must summon the enforcer, tell me now, as it will save time.”

“You mean the muscled lieutenant?” asked Han. The man had spoken to him earlier about obedience. Now the talk made sense.

“Exactly,” the tech said. “Now hurry please, inform us of your decision, as your stalled tank is causing confusion.”

Han swallowed hard, and he pleaded, “I can’t take more of those death-shocks.”

“Complaining is futile,” the taller tech said. “Simply get on with your task, and if you can, stay alive.” The tech turned to a com-board, before glancing a last time at Han and raising an eyebrow.

“Stay alive,” Han whispered. He nodded as he shoved the VR helmet onto his head. The Alaskan scene leaped back into view. The sounds of battle played in his earpiece, but not so loudly that he couldn’t hear the battle operator’s comments.

With his twitch-gloves, Han used his cameras to look around. Most of the other tank-drones were ahead of him now. Each tank was a Xing T-29 ‘Marauder,’ a light tank with an un-turreted 130mm smoothbore gun and two 12.7mm machineguns. A small AI inside the tank fired the weapons in real time. As any online gamer would know, the lag from China to Alaska would make precision firing impossible for Han. He supplied the drone’s ‘strategic’ guidance.

After moments of assessment, Han shouted, “My tank can’t fire its main gun at the ATGMs at the top of the hills!”

The American teams had just launched TOW2 missiles, taking out one of the Marauders. Now American recoilless rifles opened up from the top of the hill.

In the Mukden pit, Han twitched his gloves like mad. His remote-controlled tank reversed, slewed to the slide and roared ahead, racing to a burning Marauder. Shells landed around him as a TOW2 missile whooshed past. His AI fired a flechette beehive defender. It sprayed the air with eraser-sized tungsten balls. The beehive was supposed to take out swaths of infantry. Han had instructed the AI to use it to try to take out the TOW2 missiles.

“You must attack the enemy,” a battle operator said.

“Yes, yes,” panted Han.

He used his position behind the two burning Marauders. He clanked forward, fired, and dodged back behind the two wrecks for cover. Why wasn’t their artillery firing smoke shells? He needed covering smoke to help hide him until the last moment.

“You must charge the Americans,” said the battle operator. “You are a suicide vehicle.”

“I will survive,” whispered Han. He absolutely dreaded the death-shock.

For thirty seconds no one talked to him. Han remained behind the burning Marauders. In the pit, he twitched his gloves to keep the techs off his back, but he was only communicating with his Marauder’s AI.

“Captain Han!” a man roared in his ear. “You will advance on the Americans or face court-martial and a firing squad afterward.”

Licking his lips, Han moved his remote-controlled tank out of hiding. Chinese IFVs roared past his drone and raced for the slopes. Attack helicopters swarmed overhead, pouring chaingun-fire down on the Americans.

Heaving a deep sigh, Han revved his engine and roared after the IFVs. If he could stay close enough to them, maybe the enemy would target the infantry carriers instead of his Marauder.

The next few minutes proved to be a cauldron of vicious fighting. The Americans held their positions, dying even as they dealt death. Wyvern and Blowdart missiles, TOW2 anti-tank missiles, grenades, bullets and 155mm artillery shells destroying choppers, IFVs, Marauders and the naval infantry leaping out of the carriers. The naval infantry fought up the slopes and fired the handheld SPET-missiles at the strongpoints. It was the hardest fighting of the war so far.

The 160th Naval Battalion and the two companies of Marauder drone tanks took casualties as the 322nd Naval Infantry Battalion edged closer for their turn at the gap.

“You must break through!” the battlefield operator shouted at Han. “Smash into their rear area, find the command post and obliterate it.”

In the underground center in Mukden, in the controller’s pit, Han guided his drone on the Number One Highway as he moved between the hills. He raced through the gap, with several IFVs clanking behind him.

“Find the CP!” the battle operator said.

“Where?” shouted Han. “Where is it?” Then his AI spotted an American officer behind a boulder. The officer waved his arm, sending reinforcements up the American side of the hill to help their beleaguered brethren on top.

Han revved his engine as the AI fired its 130mm cannon and blew away the boulder. Unsure whether the drone had killed the officer or not, Han charged the area. His camera spotted movement on a rear slope about two hundred meters behind the last American trench. He used zoom, seeing a long barrel and the top of a turret. Quick analysis told him it was a tank, an American Abrams M1A2.

Han swore as he made his sedan-sized Marauder swerve. It upset the AI’s calculations. There was a muzzle flash from the long enemy smoothbore. Something fast zoomed toward Han.

Then Captain Han yelled as his Xing T-29 Marauder burst into flames from a direct hit. Han shouted louder as he received his death-shock. Then he slumped into unconsciousness. For him, the battle was over.

ARCTIC OCEAN

The wind howled around General Shin Nung, hero of the Siberian War. Nine years ago in 2023, his aggressive armored thrust had captured Yakutsk. He was the present commander of the Cross-Polar Taskforce, ready to win yet another campaign for the Chairman. He was on the Arctic Ocean pack ice, having traveled thousands of kilometers from Ambarchik Base in Eastern Siberia. His Chinese taskforce was headed for Dead Horse, Alaska.

The blasting noise of the blizzard had driven like nails into his head so his eyes continuously pulsed with pain. He wore a heavy parka, with a woolen ski mask protecting his face and with goggles over his tormented eyes. With his thick mittens, he grasped a towline. He pulled himself through the ‘whiteout.’ The wind continually shoved against him.

The polar blizzard had been howling for days, grounding everything. The blizzard whipped up the powdery snow on the pack ice. It was impossible to see the hundreds of parked vehicles around him.

Nung gripped the towline, dragging himself along. The powdery snow didn’t compress together as he walked over it. Instead, it slid out from under his feet, making this a treacherous endeavor.

He’d been making the rounds between hovertanks, snowtanks, caterpillar-haulers and infantry carriers. This was the advance group. Behind him for hundreds of kilometers, were combat engineers building airstrips and creating a polar road. So far, the taskforce had made it halfway from Ambarchik Base to their targeted destination.

Today or tonight—it was always dark—he’d discovered three infantry carrier crews dead from asphyxiation. They hadn’t followed procedures as they heated their stalled vehicles. Such a senseless loss made General Nung frown.

It’s Commissar Yongzheng and his killers. Why did High Command saddle me with East Lightning operatives and this muddled approach to polar warfare?

It was maddening. He knew how to achieve victory, but these rules of approach were binding him. It was the wrong way to grab the American oilfields. If High Command had listened to him, the battle for Alaska would already be over.

For Nung, the blizzard slackened as he reached the command caterpillar. Yongzheng was in there. Maybe after witnessing this blizzard, the commissar could understand the situation and see the truth.

Gripping metal, Nung twisted and opened the hatch. Heat poured around him and light bloomed into existence as three men swiveled around in the caterpillar. They wore heavy shirts, but no parkas. One showed anger but quickly changed into obedient acceptance of the opened door.

“Hello, General,” that man said, a lieutenant of the data-net.

The thinnest man in the caterpillar showed distaste as if he’d eaten a rotten egg. He was Commissar Yongzheng. He was thin and had long fingers like the violinist he was. He had delicate, sensitive features, almost like a girl.

Gripping his shirt collar and shivering, Yongzheng said, “Close the hatch, General. It’s freezing.”

General Nung scowled. The commissar’s mannerisms were effeminate. It angered him every time he realized that this violinist had veto power over every one of his command decisions.

The last of the three was the opposite of Yongzheng. The East Lightning killer seemed like some primate proto-human with crude features and coarse mannerisms. The henchman had eyes like oil, and they never turned away when Nung stared at him. The general found that enraging. Several times, he’d debated shooting the killer in the back and leaving him in the snow. Unfortunately, the brute never left Yongzheng’s side.

As he tore off his ski mask and hood, Nung slammed the hatch shut. It was stiflingly hot in here. There was communication equipment piled on both sides of the caterpillar. It was a drone remote-controlling caterpillar, one of several in the taskforce.