Invasion: Colorado (24 page)

“Should we help them?” the corporal asked.

Before Jake could answer, someone else shouted, “Chinese!”

Jake looked over the masonry. His eyes bugged outward. Chinese soldiers in body armor sprinted through a cross street, with their equipment jangling. The enemy had nasty-looking assault weapons. A few wore visors, likely battery-powered with a schematic of Castle Rock. The wash and illumination of flames on their backs make the enemy soldiers seem like demons of the Inferno.

“Up there!” another Militiaman shouted.

Jake looked up. An Eagle flyer darted overhead. The Chinese commando fired a grenade from a shoulder-launcher. The projectile landed with an explosion thirty feet away, and two Militiamen tumbled over. Didn’t anyone know how to hide?

“We have to get out of here,” the tall corporal told Jake. Dirt streaked the man’s cheeks and his eyes were huge.

“Yeah, soon,” Jake said. “Help me set up the machine gun.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“We’re screwed,” Jake told the corporal. “Our battalion just did a bunk and the rest are too scared to fight back. That leaves us.”

“We should run.”

“We should kill Chinese bastards,” Jake said, remembering the ones who had hanged Americans in Rio National Forest.

“I’m out of here,” the corporal said. His name was Charles and he used to be a philosophy student. His neck was far too long. Right, right, everyone called him Goose.

“Listen, Goose,” Jake said good-naturedly. “If you run, I’m going to shoot you.”

“What?” Goose said. “You can’t threaten me. I’m a corporal and you’re a private in my squad.”

“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
.