Battlefield China

Chapter 26 Battle for Lingyuan

The hangar felt cold and damp, but at least there wasn’t any wind. “Hurry up and grab your gear!” shouted Staff Sergeant Jose Sanchez, the platoon sergeant. “When the helicopters show up, I want everyone to run out to our bird and get on. No lollygagging!”

Private Liam Miller turned to Corporal Webster. “Have you ever ridden in one of these new helicopters before?” he asked.

Webster shook his head. “No, this’ll be a first for me,” he admitted.

Specialist Nathan Ryle, who’d overheard their conversation, interjected, “I rode in one once. When I caught a ride back to the unit from the hospital. They’re super-fast.”

Since getting shot and returning to the unit, Nathan had lost the attitude problem he’d had at the start of their deployment and had finally started to fit in with the platoon. It was like his brush with death had suddenly given him a reason to live, and he found he’d have a better chance of surviving the war if he wasn’t such a jerk to the other guys in his unit. Maybe he was also grateful for how they’d helped save his life by risking death to get him to a medevac.

Captain Joel Garcia walked up to the group. “Listen up, guys!” he announced. “The helicopters will be arriving soon. When they do, we’re going to pile in. It’s about forty minutes to the target. Once on the ground, we’re to dig in and hold the area until the main body of the ROK 16th Mechanized Brigade and the 1/8 Cav arrive.” As he spoke, he continued to walk back and forth in front of the company, going over their objective for what must have been the tenth time that morning.

The captain paused for a second, surveying the men and women before him as they stood in loose formation, waiting for their ride. “I know I’ve said this all before,” said Garcia. “This is going to be a tough fight, men — but we’re going to end this war. Remember your training, listen to your officers and NCOs, and we’ll get through this. Golden Dragons, lead the way!” When he shouted the battalion motto, it forced everyone to shout it right back at him.

Once the captain turned to go talk to some of the battalion brass, Staff Sergeant Martinez snorted. “He must be auditioning for his next promotion,” he said in a hushed tone. Lieutenant Fallon chuckled at his comment.

The captain was a decent guy. When his company had found a way inside the mountain that formed the Jinzhou-Fuxin Line, the Allies had found their way to break through the PLA fortress. Martinez, Fallon and a handful of other soldiers in their platoon had been awarded Silver Stars for finding the entrance and emerging victorious in the fight that had ensued, but their captain had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. Ever since then, he seemed to feel that he was on the verge of being promoted to take over command of the battalion.

However, after that major battle, their brigade had been pulled from the line for a couple of months of R&R and occupation duty while replacement soldiers were filtered in to bring them back to 100 % strength. With no major battles or combat losses, promotions within the brigade remained low, and he hadn’t gotten his major’s oakleaves.

A few minutes later, the soldiers of 2-14 Infantry heard the familiar rhythmic thumping sound of helicopter blades getting closer. Turning their attention to the open hangar doors, they spotted a squadron of the army’s newest aviation member, the Bell V-280 Valor. The tiltrotor helicopter flared its nose up slightly and then settled into a soft touchdown on the parking pad a hundred meters in front of the hangar.

“First Platoon, follow me!” shouted one of the lieutenants. This call was quickly followed by similar orders from the rest of the platoon leaders.

Corporal Shane Webster seemed to be geeking out a bit. “This helicopter is so cool looking!” he told whoever could hear him. “It’s like something from a sci-fi movie.”

The other soldiers chuckled. They were probably thinking the same thing, but they just kept it inside. In short order, they had all strapped themselves into the six-point harnesses. Moments later, the helicopter lifted off and went into its holding pattern, out of the way, so other helicopters could land and load up their human cargo as well. With a battalion-level insertion, the sky was practically a swarm of choppers.

In addition to the V-280s, a squadron of AH-64 Apache gunships were tagging along to help provide any immediate ground support the battalion may need. Ten minutes went by with them circling the airbase, and then the air armada turned as a group and headed for their objective.

The flight to their objective was relatively uneventful. They avoided flying over most of the front lines, opting for a flight path that took them over more of the mountainous terrain to the north.

“If there wasn’t a war going on, this would be a beautiful helicopter ride,” thought Corporal Webster. Then he looked back around him and was reminded bluntly that this was not a scenic tour; the soldiers surrounding him were all fully weighed down with the tools of war, ready to unleash the awesome and terrifying military power strapped to their bodies.

“We’re approaching the target!” yelled one of the door gunners. From his tone, it was obvious that they weren’t sticking around any longer than absolutely necessary.

While they made their approach, the tiltrotor shifted its position to allow the helicopter to hover and land — airplane mode was no longer needed. When the nose of the Valor flared up, it bled off their airspeed immensely, enabling them to make a soft yet quick landing. Once on the ground, the crew chiefs and sergeant yelled at everyone, “Get out and move away from the helicopter!”

It took less than a minute for all the soldiers to get off the choppers and place some distance between themselves and their airborne chariots.

Zip, zip, crack, zip.

Bullets zinged right over their heads. Enemy soldiers nearby did their best to shoot down the helicopters before they could get away.

“Enemy soldiers, six o’clock, three hundred meters!” shouted one of the sergeants.

Ratatat, ratatat, ratatat.

Several of the M240G gunners opened fire on the small band of enemy soldiers.

Corporal Webster ran for cover next to a row of trees.

Snap, snap, crack.

Several bullets hit the tree trunk just as his body slammed against it. A single bullet zipped right past his head, close enough for him to hear the bee-like buzzing sound as it flew past him. He quickly brought his M4 to his shoulder and found the source of the gunfire. Several hundred meters below them was a small dirt trail, and from the looks of it, a squad of Chinese soldiers must have been patrolling there before their helicopters had suddenly showed up out of nowhere.

Taking aim at one of the soldiers, Webster squeezed off several rounds, forcing one of the enemy soldiers to duck behind a tree. In response, one of the PLA soldiers turned the PKM machine gun he was brandishing toward the section of trees Webster and his squad were using for cover. Rounds slapped the trees and brush around them as they ducked.

Before any of Webster’s men could return fire, one of the Apache gunships that had been escorting their rides opened up on the dirt trail with several antimaterial rockets. Showers of flame, shrapnel and dirt peppered the area. An eerie calm replaced what had been a chaotic scene seconds before. Everyone held their fire to see if the gunships had killed them all. When no one fired back, one of the officers yelled, “Hurry up and get your positions set up!”

The soldiers moved swiftly, as though they had suddenly awoken from a dream. They had no idea how long it would take for the enemy to find out where they were and send them another welcoming party, and they needed to do their best to prepare.

Five hours went by as Corporal Webster and his fellow soldiers worked on digging their fighting positions. They moved down the ridge a few hundred meters to the dirt trail where they’d first encountered the enemy soldiers. Since the underbrush had already been cleared there, that trail would make an excellent front edge of their lines; they’d have an open area in front of their firing positions while remaining tucked away just inside the tree line.

While many soldiers were tasked with digging three-man fighting positions or four-man machine-gun positions, others unraveled rolls of concertina wire roughly forty meters in front of their new fortifications. Just behind the rolls of razor-tipped wires, some of the other soldiers set up and concealed Claymore anti-personnel mines and other nasty surprises some of the engineers were rigging up. Further out, about a dozen meters in front of the razor wire, a few soldiers strung up trip flares with some Claymores — those would act as an early-warning system of sorts once the sun went down.

Corporal Webster took a break for a moment to stretch and crack his back and smiled at all the bustling activity and layers of defense they were building. They had no idea how long they’d have to hold this position; they might as well do their best to make it as tough on the enemy as possible.

He looked back. Roughly three hundred meters below them was the bottom of the ridge. The trees there opened up to reveal relatively flat farmland and the edges of a small village or city another seven to ten kilometers away. That was where their armored reinforcements would be linking up with them from.

“I hope we can hold out long enough,” Webster thought.

Staff Sergeant Sanchez was walking the line his platoon was responsible for when he came upon Corporal Webster, Specialist Ryle and Private First Class Miller, all sitting with their feet dangling over the edge of their foxhole and their MREs in their laps.

“You guys look like the Three Stooges — you know that, right? Your fighting position looks like crap,” he proclaimed. He proceeded to point out the fact that their foxhole was still only a meter deep, the edges were falling in on it and they had little cover in front of their fighting position.

“We’re taking a break, Sarge. Can’t you see we’re eating?” Ryle retorted.

Sanchez snickered. “Five months ago, you guys hated each other, now you’re all jokes and sharing an MRE. Never mind. Get this position ready. I’ll give you guys another five minutes to finish your food, then I want to see you guys clean this up. Most of the platoon is already done.”

When he’d left, Corporal Webster asked, “You guys think this war is almost over? It’s practically November, which means winter is almost here. I really don’t want to be sitting in a foxhole when it starts to snow.”

“How should I know? I’m just a dumb guy from Compton,” replied Ryle in his usual manner.

“You’re lucky, Ryle. You didn’t spend months on end pulling occupation duty,” Private Miller responded. “I’d rather be out here in a foxhole facing off against enemy soldiers than patrolling through one of those Chinese urban jungles.” With that, he finished off the last bite of his cheese tortellini and stuffed the empty pouch back into the MRE bag.

“Hey, if you’re done, get back to work,” gibed Corporal Webster, who was still finishing off the last of the cheese spread on his crackers.

“I wouldn’t call getting shot lucky,” Ryle shot back, “but the ice cream and pretty nurses were a nice break from looking at your ugly mugs.” They all snickered at the joke.

“OK, guys, let’s finish off this position,” said Corporal Webster. “We’ve delayed long enough to avoid getting picked for any special duties Sanchez or the lieutenant might have for those overzealous gophers who already finished their positions.”

The three of them chuckled at that. They’d learned early on that if you finished your task too quickly, you could find yourself “voluntold” to go work on another task, so they’d learned how to milk a project just long enough not to get in trouble.

Slowly and steadily, the day turned to night as the soldiers of 2-14 Infantry settled into their newly dug fighting positions and waited.

Corporal Webster wondered if they’d be attacked during the night, or if their luck would hold out and the enemy would decide they weren’t worth the trouble.

“Stay frosty, and get ready for stand-to,” Staff Sergeant Sanchez announced. “Several of the LP/OPs radioed in a large concentration of enemy troops headed our way.” He quickly moved down the line to the next foxhole to spread the word.

The three of them exchanged nervous glances as they readied their weapons, shifting uncomfortably in their fighting position.

“Maybe we should have made this thing a little bigger,” thought Webster as he placed a couple of hand grenades on the ground in front of him, ready in case he needed them.

“You think the sarge could be any more vague with his description of what’s out there?” asked Specialist Ryle. He pulled himself up and stood behind the squad’s heavy machine gun.

“Maybe the LP/OP spotted a squad or platoon and thought it was larger than it really was. It’s dark out,” replied Private Miller nervously. He pulled another hundred-round belt for the M240G out of his ruck and began to link it together with the one already fed into Ryle’s weapon.

Before any of them could say anything more, what sounded like a freight train zoomed right over their heads, then impacted violently several hundred meters up the ridge.

BOOM! Boom, boom, BOOM!

“Everyone down!” shouted one of the sergeants in a nearby fighting position.

The next five minutes was sheer terror for the infantry soldiers dug in on the side of the ridge. Enemy artillery rained down on them. Trees, parts of trees, rocks, dirt and everything else on the ridge were torn apart and thrown into the air and all around the soldiers. They did their best to ride out the horrendous experience.

Suddenly a shrieking whistle sound pierced their ears, followed by the guttural howl of an untold number of men and women below their positions.

Pop, pop, pop.

Illumination rounds started go off all along the ridge, turning the predawn twilight into full daylight.

“Holy hell, that’s a lot of enemy soldiers!” shouted Private Miller. He brought his M4 to his shoulder and fired.

Specialist’s Ryle’s eyes went wide as saucers when he saw the wave of humanity charging up the ridge at them. He shook himself, then lowered his head down until his cheek was flush with the stock of his M240G. He fired three-to-five-second bursts of automatic fire into the ranks of the charging enemy soldiers, making sure to sweep back and forth across his field of fire.

Lifting his own rifle to his shoulder, Corporal Webster sighted in on one enemy soldier after another as the enemy charged relentlessly up the hill at them.

Pop, pop, pop, zip, crack, zip, crack.

Bullets flew back and forth between the two sides at a dizzying rate of speed, cutting dozens of people down before they even knew what had hit them. At two hundred meters, the enemy soldiers started tripping some of the flares the Americans had set up, which further illuminated them. Then several of the daisy-chained Claymore mines and hand grenades they had boobytrapped began to go off, cutting huge swaths of the enemy apart.

Boom, boom, boom, boom, crump, crump, crump.

Dozens of enemy soldiers were thrown sideways in the air or were blown apart outright as the cacophony of explosions rippled up and down the ridge. More whistles sounded as yet another wave of enemy soldiers charged upward to replace the first wave, which had been utterly decimated by the American Claymores.

“I’m changing barrels. Get more ammo ready!” shouted Ryle. He carefully disconnected the barrel with the specialized glove. It was practically glowing; it had definitely needed to cool. He deftly grabbed the spare barrel and snapped it in place while Private Miller attached a new hundred-round belt to the few remaining bullets left of the belt still loaded in the weapon.

Webster did his best to keep firing at the second wave of enemy soldiers, giving them as much covering fire as he could until they got the machine gun back up and running. Then he heard the most sickening noise of his life — a wet splat.

Private Miller cried out in agony. “I’m hit! Oh God, my arm!” he wailed. His left arm was dangling, barely hanging on by some muscle and tendon. With each heartbeat, blood spurted out on the ground.

Specialist Ryle stopped shooting. He turned his body toward Miller, but Webster shouted, “Don’t stop shooting — I’ll help him!”

Shock and blood loss took hold of Miller, and he slumped down to the bottom of their foxhole.

“Hang in there, Miller! You’re going to be OK,” Webster reassured him. “I’m going to get a tourniquet on, and we’ll get you back to the medics.” He pulled his tourniquet from the medical pouch attached to his IBA and tied off the arm an inch above the wound. With the bleeding stemmed, he stood up and started shouting, “Medic!”

With a half-glazed look and sweat running down his face, Miller looked up at his friend. “I don’t want to die, Shane…I’m scared,” he managed to mumble.

Wiping a tear from his own eye, Webster leaned in to be heard over the roar of Ryle’s machine gun. “You’re going to be all right, Liam. I’ve got the bleeding stopped. I’ll help you get back to the aid station when the medic gets here.” He looked above the lip of their foxhole, hoping to spot a medic.

Seconds later, one of the platoon’s medics came running over and motioned for Webster to help get Miller out of the foxhole. The two of them did their best to carry Miller further back behind their lines to the battalion aid station, where one of the doctors could help patch him up. As they shuffled along, Webster saw the extensive damage from the enemy artillery attack. Then he spotted the aid station; it was inundated with wounded soldiers.

Meanwhile, the roar of battle continued unabated. Before heading back to his foxhole, Webster made a point to grab as much ammo as he could for Ryle and himself, and then he raced back down to their positions. As he got closer to their foxhole, he was horrified to see that the enemy had reached the concertina wire — they were practically on top of their positions at this point.

Jumping back into the foxhole, Webster dumped another four one-hundred-round belts of ammo next to Ryle’s gun.

“`Bout time you got back here. For a minute I thought I was on my own,” Ryle shouted. He stopped shooting just long enough to reload and to pour one of the canteens of water he had across the barrel in an attempt to cool it off.

“Damn, those guys are getting close,” Webster remarked. He took a moment to link another belt of ammo to the one Ryle had just loaded. This would give him at least two hundred rounds.

“Oh crap, they just broke through the wire!” Ryle shouted. Webster saw the enemy soldiers pouring in through a several-meter-wide opening they’d managed to create.

Suddenly, a string of bullets tore into their position, forcing the two of them to duck for cover. A voice somewhere to their right yelled, “Get that machine gun going! We’re going to be overrun!”

“Cover me!” Ryle shouted. Then he popped up and tore into the charging enemy.

Webster grabbed one of the Claymore clickers and depressed it. A fraction of a second later, the electrical charge reached the blasting cap and detonated the mine, spraying hundreds of ball bearings at the enemy like a giant shotgun at point-blank range.

Without pausing, Webster picked his rifle up and began to fire.

Pop, pop, pop!

Then his bolt locked to the rear. His magazine was empty. Dropping the empty magazine, he snatched a fresh one from his IBA, slapped it in place and hit the bolt release. With a fresh round in the chamber, Webster aimed right for a cluster of soldiers that were now no more than twenty meters from them.

He paused just long enough to reach down and grab some grenades. Then he started lobbing them at the enemy.

Crump, crump, crump.

Other soldiers also threw grenades in a desperate attempt to cut down the attackers before they overran their positions. Just as Webster thought they weren’t going to make it, they heard a thunderous roar in the sky. It sounded like a monstrous ripping noise, like some massive piece of paper or fabric was being torn apart. Then what almost appeared to be the finger of God began to rip through the charging enemy.

A near-constant red line emanating from somewhere above them systematically danced across the ground in front of them, obliterating the enemy soldiers just as they were about to overrun the American positions. What they were witnessing was a mixture of red tracers from the 25mm GAU-12/U Equalizer five-barreled Gatling cannons and smaller explosions from 40mm Bofors cannons. Further behind enemy lines, 105mm Howitzer rounds started to hit, decimating a third wave of enemy soldiers that was about to filter their way.

In seconds, the mass of enemy soldiers that had been moments away from wiping out their unit was turned into a torn and bloody mess of bodies as the entire attack collapsed.

“What the hell was that?” shouted Ryle. He stopped shooting and turned to Webster, a look of horror mixed with thankfulness on his face.

Shaking his head in amazement, Webster replied, “That, my friend, was a miracle.”

Then the loud tearing sound and wave of explosions started up again, only this time a little further down the line. It tore into the next enemy position.

“Seriously, what the hell was that? I’ve never seen something like that,” Ryle added. He craned his head around to look up at the sky. Corporal Webster looked up too, but all they could see was a layer of clouds and intermittent red lines slashing through the gray covering.

“That was an Air Force AC-130 Spectre gunship, Ryle, and it just saved our lives.”

Captain Jason Diss and his tankers were physically exhausted. Their brigade had been in almost constant combat for the past four days as the Allies began their final move on the PLA amassing around the Beijing capital region. The 2nd Brigade Combat Team or “Black Jacks” of the 1st Cavalry Division still had another 130 kilometers to travel to relieve a brigade from the 10th Mountain Brigade that was hunkered down deep behind enemy lines.

Looking behind him, Diss saw the Abrams tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles of his battalion steadily moving along the G1 or Jingha Expressway. They had been making good time ever since they’d finally jumped on this route.

“Anything is better than snaking through one endless village after another,” thought Diss. Tanks didn’t belong in cities. They needed room to maneuver.

Looking up, Diss saw a pair of Apache gunships several kilometers to his right zoom ahead of them, scouting for possible enemy armor or threats.

“As long as the flyboys keeps the Chinese Air Force off my tanks we’ll be fine,” he thought. Diss remembered a few weeks back when one of those new PLA UAV ground-attack planes had torn into his battalion. They’d lost several tanks before the drone had been shot down. The sight of that thing had scared the hell out of them — it was the first time they’d seen the PLA’s newfangled weapon.

Diss heard some radio static in his CVC and then the familiar beep as the SINCGAR synced. “Mustang Four, this is Hawk Three. Be advised, enemy armor spotted nineteen kilometers to your front. Enemy armor at least battalion strength. Moving to engage them now. Out.”

“Well, at least our gunships found the enemy before they found us,” he thought, trying to look at the bright side. Part of him was selfishly upset that the Apaches would get to score some kills before his tanks arrived on scene. His company already had more tank kills than any company in the brigade, and it was a point of pride for his unit.

Depressing his own talk button, he spoke to his tankers. “Heads up, Mustangs! FRAGO follows. Our Hawk element has spotted enemy armor. Roughly battalion-size, nineteen kilometers to our front. They’re engaging them now. I want everyone to get ready to move off the expressway in a few more kilometers. We’ll approach from the fields to our left.”

A few minutes went by as the tankers drove a little closer to the enemy on the smooth surface of the expressway. Then Diss’s lead tank bulldozed through the cement barrier on the edge of the expressway, creating a hole for the rest of the company to follow through.

As they approached the outskirts of Gengyang, they saw a handful of black smoke columns drifting skyward, evidence of the Apaches’ earlier visit.

“Damn, those guys were probably setting up an ambush for us in the city,” Diss thought, grateful that the gunships had made their visit first.

Captain Diss examined his map; they were roughly halfway to their objective of relieving the 10th Mountain Unit. This was the last place they wanted to get bogged down — it was one of the few major cities between them and the soldiers they were supposed to relieve.

A familiar crackle of static echoed in his CVC before the radio beeped. “Mustang Four, Warrior Two. I’ve got eyes on at least twelve Type-96 tanks intermixed inside a small cluster of multistory apartment complexes. We’ve also spotted seven Type-11 assault gun trucks. Unknown number of dismounted infantry, but it looks to be at least company strength. How copy?”

The Warrior element was their scout platoon assigned to them from brigade. The combat observation and lasing teams were specially equipped M1200 armored cars that would speed ahead of the armored forces, looking for enemy targets for the armor to engage. In this case, they zeroed in on the targets the Apaches had found and would lead the tanks right to them.

Captain Diss depressed his talk button. “Warrior Two, this is Mustang Four. Good copy. We’re eight clicks from your current position. Can you get some steel on those assault trucks?” he asked, hoping they might be able to get some artillery support. He was concerned about the AT trucks in particular — although not heavily armored, they could really damage his tanks if they got within range of their antitank guided missiles or 105mm cannons.

“Copy that, Mustang. Stand by while we see what’s available,” came the reply.

Diss switched over to his company net. “Mustangs, I want everyone to reform into a wedge formation and slow down to fifteen kilometers an hour. Stay alert. We’re approaching Warrior’s position.”

As their company approached the outskirts of a small village southeast of the major city, their scout platoon spotted movement.

“Mustang Four, this is Warrior Two. We’re unable to find a way around this village. Recommend following close behind us as we look to navigate a clear path through the village. We’d sure like some support as we move in. How copy?” asked a very nervous lieutenant on the other end.

Diss snickered before he replied; he knew exactly what the young officer wanted. He wanted him to lead his tanks into the village hot on their heels, in case they ran into trouble. He didn’t blame the guy — who wouldn’t want a 62-ton tank or a 27-ton Bradley fighting vehicle for backup?

Depressing his talk button, Diss replied, “Warrior Two, that’s a good copy. Stand by at the edge of the village while I position a couple of Bradleys to take point.”

He then switched over to his company radio and ordered two of his infantry Bradleys to move forward and saddle up with the scout cars. His tanks and remaining Bradleys would follow behind them as they moved through the village.

Standing in the commander’s hatch, Diss made sure the Ma Deuce machine gun was ready for action. He saw the other tank commanders popping out of their commander’s hatches, doing the same. Then the gunner’s hatch opened, and Sergeant Cortez popped up and unlocked the other turret-mounted machine gun, the M240.

Slowly, the scout cars started to advance with the two Bradley fighting vehicles maybe ten meters behind them. The infantry soldiers in the vehicles chose to stay buttoned up inside until a threat materialized that required them to leave their secured cocoons. The armored column made it four blocks deep into the small village before all hell broke loose.

Swoosh…BOOM.

Ratatat, ratatat, zip, zip, zap, crack, BAM.

In dozens of nearby windows, machine-gun crews sprang into action. Then, on the roofs of many of the three-to-six-story buildings, dozens of enemy soldiers wielding RPGs and Molotov cocktails materialized. The wicks on the flaming concoctions were already lit, and they hurled them speedily through the air.

“Ah hell, here it comes,” Diss said aloud to no one in particular. He swiveled his M2 toward the roof top of a building and started aiming for soldiers carrying RPGs.

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

The roar of his 50-cal. added to the overwhelming racket assaulting his every sense. He quickly saw the first set of enemy soldiers explode into a cloud of red mist as his projectiles cleared the rooftop of enemy threats.

BOOM.

The lead scout car suddenly exploded as two RPGs slammed into it from opposite sides of the street. The other scout vehicle right behind him pushed the burning wreck aside as they pressed forward to get them out of the village. They only had another four blocks to travel and they’d be out of the urban area and back in a flat open field.

“To the right!” shouted Cortez.

A swarm of enemy soldiers rushed out of a nearby building, running right for the Bradley in front of them. The soldiers inside the vehicle began shooting out of the gun slits as fast as they could at the mob rushing them. Then a massive explosion rocked the vehicle, obliterating all the attackers in one torn and bloody mess. When the dust settled, the Bradley had been blown to the side and its right track had been completely torn apart. The vehicle was dead in the water and immobile right in the center of the road.

The Bradley’s back hatch opened and the soldiers inside tumbled out, stunned and disoriented from the blast that had rocked their vehicle. A couple of the soldiers got cut down by a hail of enemy bullets before the others snapped out of it and took cover behind several vehicles parked on the side of the road.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Captain!” shouted Cortez. He fired a long burst of gun fire at several soldiers along the roof of another building.

Depressing the talk button, Diss called out to his vehicle driver, “Keep moving forward! Push the Bradley out of the way and crush those cars on the right side of the street if you have to, but keep us moving.”

The tank lurched forward as the driver moved to get them out of the kill zone. Several of the dismounted infantrymen saw what they were trying to do and got out of the way as Diss’s tank crept up to the right rear side of their disabled vehicle and pushed it to the side of the road. Meanwhile, bullets bounced off the tank’s armor and whizzed all around Cortez and Diss, who did their best to provide covering fire for the infantrymen and keep the enemy RPG teams from disabling any more of their tanks.

The other Bradleys in their column dismounted their infantry soldiers as well, and the whole scene became a chaotic cluster mess. The gunners in the tanks tried their best to use their heavy machine guns to tear into the enemy soldiers as best they could.

“If we don’t get the column moving through this kill zone soon, we’ll all end up dead,” thought Captain Diss.

In the span of a couple of minutes, they managed to push the disabled vehicle off to the side and were once again on the move. The driver moved them quickly toward the right side of the road, rolling over several smaller vehicles parked on the side of the road, crushing them under the weight of their tank as the tracks tore the metal and plastic composite molding of the car apart.

They moved another two more blocks, past the first ambush, meeting little enemy resistance as their infantrymen did a good job of shooting any enemy soldiers they saw. Then out of nowhere, a Type-99 tank drove out of one of the alleyways with its turret already turned to meet the American tank. Before Captain Diss or anyone in his tank could react, the Chinese tank fired its 125mm cannon at near point-blank range into the side of their tank.

In the blink of an eye, Captain Diss’s mind registered his body being catapulted out of the turret and into the air, floating effortlessly for the briefest of moments before gravity took over and his body tumbled to the ground, landing in a heap. As he lay there on the sidewalk, his mind tried to compute what had just happened. The more he tried to focus, the foggier things became, until everything just went black.