Invasion: Colorado

-11- Counterattack

The stars shone brightly as Master Sergeant Kavanagh and Romo patrolled the western flank of Army Group Washington.

There were Militia and Regular Army infantry divisions slogging to close the gap of the advancing tanks. The foot soldiers would build defenses to keep the PAA Third Front surrounded, but the trap hadn’t shut yet and that made the deep-driving units vulnerable.

Paul and Romo moved slowly on their snowmobiles, the front skis sliding over ice crystals, leaving a furrow behind them. Each man scanned the western flatlands. They used their night-vision visors switched to long-range scan. For Paul, it was an endless wasteland where little moved, a frozen land supinely accepting the Arctic cold. Each snowmobile pulled a sled, the skis hissing over the white powder. The attachments carried an abundance of ordnance and survival equipment.

Paul and Romo were part of a larger effort to provide coverage against PAA counterattacks. The Chinese had grown cunning. They used hovertanks and UAVs against the Americans’ growing logistical tail. Each day the rear area lengthened, stretching back to the Platte River Line.

The American Second Tank Army spearheaded the advance toward Colorado Springs. The lead units had already covered an incredible two hundred miles, half the distance there. Behind Second Tank Army followed Ninth Army and then the Canadian First Army. Trucks, oil tankers and haulers crisscrossed back and forth, bringing up badly needed supplies. The fighting had been stiff in places, the use of U.S. munitions prodigious. Despite the around-the-clock effort, the ground haulers weren’t enough. The Army Group used an inordinate number of air transports, bringing fuel to thirsty tanks.

Lately, the Chinese pinprick counterattacks had increased. They sent hovertank companies, sometimes battalions. The objective was simple: destroy supply dumps and transport vehicles. If the enemy could drain away enough gas and munitions, the drive to Colorado Springs would dry up of its own accord without any major combat. That would also strand Army Group Washington out in the open for the Chinese to slice and dice at will.

Paul and Romo were only part of the side guard. Helicopters and AWACS patrolled the lengthening flank. Drones and bombers waited in the air with Hellfire III missiles. The air assets swooped out of the night sky, bringing vengeance against the Chinese raiders. Various LRSU units, together with Marine Recon and other elite soldiers, formed an early warning line thrown out like a net to catch the elusive Chinese.

The enemy hovertanks acted like ancient Scythians or Great Plains Indians. They raided, using their mobility to flee the strong and their cannons to destroy the weak: in this instance, supply vehicles or supply and fuel dumps.

Paul swayed on his snowmobile, half-asleep from endless days and nights of patrolling. His suit’s heater had been malfunctioning lately, shutting off at the oddest times. He needed to see a tech about it, but hadn’t been back to base for some time.

“To your right,” Romo said, the words reverberating in Paul’s helmet. “We’d better stop,” the former assassin added.

Paul took his hand off the throttle, letting the machine slide to a halt. In the darkness, Romo pulled up beside him.

“Eight-eight-two,” Romo said.

Using the grid coordinates on his HUD, Paul looked there. He moved his jaw, giving him extreme magnification with his binocular vision.

“They look like dots,” Paul said.

“We’ve seen these types of dots before,” Romo said. “The very top seems to have a little hump.”

After a moment, Paul grunted agreement. Romo had good eyes.

“They’re Chinese hovertanks,” Romo said.

Paul kept his head still. If he twitched even the slightest bit, he lost visual due to the distance. “Okay. I’m counting seven of them.”

“Seven,” Romo agreed.

Paul yawned. It lost him the visual, but he didn’t care now. He used the helmet radio, reporting in to SOCOM HQ, AG Washington. He spoke to the air controller on duty and quickly discovered that there weren’t any drones available in their region.

“The hovertanks are moving,” Romo said. “It looks like they’re headed in our direction.”

Paul heard a noise then. He looked up, scanning the star-studded sky. “Hey, what’s that?”

Romo glanced up. A second later, he dove off his snowmobile, landing on his chest in the snow. “It’s Chinese—a chopper! Get down. I think they spotted us.”

Paul didn’t dive. Instead, he jumped off the snowmobile and clumped to the sled. Flipping off the top, he grabbed the last Blowdart launcher.

Machine guns opened up from the enemy helo hovering in the night. Clearly, the Chinese also patrolled along the flank, not like guards but like hungry wolves. Romo was right: they’d been spotted.

Were the helos hunting patrollers? It was crazy bad luck to have this enemy machine here now. Why’s the helo so quiet? We should have heard it way before this. Paul knew the Chinese used ultra-quiet helos to hunt guerillas, with some success.

There was little discreet about the Chinese machine gun. Big, brutal bullets tore into Romo’s snowmobile. The assassin had a sixth sense about these things and moved in time, although just barely. Paul heard the bullets’ metallic screeches. It sounded like a giant throwing punches. Something metal struck his helmet, propelling his head forward. It must have been a glancing hit, though, because he was still alive and his helmet lacked a hole.

Snarling, raising the Blowdart launcher, Paul sighted the helo hovering to his left. Its heavy machine gun blazed, raining bullets at him. In a moment he would be dead from them.

Before the fatal gun-swivel brought those bullets hosing into his body, Paul calmly pulled the trigger. The ejection charge whooshed, launching the missile. Its orange contrail climbed into the sky, doing it fast.

“Get down!” Romo shouted over the radio.

For once, Paul didn’t. He watched. Maybe he was too tired to realize his danger. The missile raced up at the helo, a winter gift for the invaders. The helo pilot must have realized his danger. The machine swerved to the right, and it threw off the gunner. Bullets hammered the ground in front of Paul. He could feel them, the slugs ripping into the frozen sod. It made his nape hairs stand on end. Then the bullets stopped hitting so near, falling elsewhere.

At that moment, the missile struck the helo. Paul heard the Blowdart warhead explode, and it created a spectacular effect. Paul watched with his night-vision visor as a fireball billowed into existence. Metal rained as the helo flipped in a seemingly slow-motion cartwheel, and then it plummeted. Going down, the burning machine shed two Chinese aircrew.

Did they bail out, or were they thrown out by the centrifugal force? Paul had no idea. He knelt in the snow, watching the spectacle. The helo hit the ground with a tremendous smash. It shook Paul so that he swayed, which seemed to wake him up.

“Are you crazy?” Romo shouted. He came running, doing it much too slowly. It was difficult to move quickly in the heavy suits and the assassin was proving it.

Paul blinked dry eyes. He was so freaking tired. He just wanted to sleep. Instead, he stood up.

Romo neared, and he inspected the shot-up, tipped-over snowmobile. “It’s ruined.”

Paul turned back to the distant specks—only they weren’t specks anymore. The hovertanks had covered ground fast. He could clearly see the smaller turret and the short-barreled cannon sticking from it. Had one or more of them seen this little firefight? Yes, of course they had. How could they have missed it in the darkness?

“The hovers are coming,” Paul said.

Romo looked up, and he cursed in Spanish. He rechecked his flipped sled, and he began pulling out Javelin launchers.

“They’re coming for us,” Paul said.

“Si. That means we don’t have much time.”

Paul glanced at his blood brother. Right. They had to fight. He lurched toward him, and he helped Romo cart Javelins to his sled. He piled the extras among his own.

Flipping up his visor, exposing his face to the cold, Paul rubbed his burning eyes. His gloves dribbled snow, which slid down to his throat. Yikes. That was cold. Blinking, he closed the visor and studied the hovertanks. They were coming on fast, seven of them. Seven armored vehicles with cannons and machine guns. It would be David against Goliath out here on the open snow.

“Let’s go,” Paul said. The sleepiness had vanished from his brain. He was wide-awake as his heart pounded in his chest.

He jumped onto the snowmobile and twisted the throttle, listening to the engine whine with power. Romo sat behind him. Paul turned the vehicle and he opened it up. The back treads clattered as they zipped, and they fled across the snow before the approaching hovertanks.

Paul contacted the air controller. “Hey AWACS!” he shouted. “Do you have some kind of air support for us now?”

“No, sorry. I already told you. There’s a big attack going on one hundred miles south of you. You’re on your own for another half hour at least.”

That was just great. Army Group Washington was supposed to have everything the soldiers needed. It looked like that didn’t include the flank guards.

As he and Romo sped across the snow, Paul gave the coordinates of the seven following hovertanks. “If they get us—”

“I’m alerting Supply Company Nine now,” the air controller said.

Paul looked back. The hovertanks were faster than the snowmobile. The mothers were catching up faster than he’d expected.

“Good luck, Kavanagh,” the air controller said.

“Sure,” Paul said. “You too.”

“We have to go to ground!” Romo shouted. “They’ll pick us off soon if we stay on the snowmobile.”

“I’m already there, amigo,” Paul said. “Do you remember the place half a mile from the farm house?”

Paul felt Romo turn and look at the hovertanks.

“We won’t make it there in time,” Romo said.

Paul glanced back. The hovertanks would be in range long before he reached the area he sought. Romo was right.

“Okay, listen up,” Paul said. “I’m going to stop and unhook the sled. You keep going and I’ll—”

“Forget it, brother,” Romo said. “If you stop, I’m jumping off with you. We’ll use the Javelins in tandem.”

Paul decided it was a waste of breath arguing with Romo. Operation Saturn—it was too ballsy. The President and General McGraw had bitten off too much. The logistical tail was too long. This was an effective use of hovertanks by the enemy, blowing up the rear areas. How did High Command figure they could guard such a large region with snowmobile patrollers and drones? Why were the infantrymen so slow getting into position?

“Okay,” Paul said. “Our suits are supposed to have camouflage gear. We stop, grab two Javelins each and split up. We crawl through the snow away from each other. Don’t fire until they’re inspecting the snowmobile. Let them think about where we’ve gone, or maybe until one of them pops out of the turret and sees our snow tracks. Then you launch a Javelin, blow up a hovertank.”

“After that we die,” Romo said.

“No one lives forever, brother.”

Romo put a hand on Paul’s armored shoulder. “You are a good brother, my friend. It has been a pleasure knowing you.”

“We’re not dead men yet.”

“Si, but we will be soon.”

Paul didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to hold and kiss Cheri again. He didn’t want his son to be an orphan. This was screwed up. Stupid hovertanks.

“Are you ready?” Paul asked.

“Si.”

Master Sergeant Kavanagh throttled down. In seconds, they stopped. He shut off the machine and hurried to the sled. Paul flipped open the lid and grabbed two Javelins. In the starlight, he stared at Romo.

“Good luck, you stubborn Apache bastard,” Paul said.

“You were right before. We’re not finished yet, my friend.”

Paul ran away in the heavy suit. Then he dove onto the snow and started crawling. He dragged the two Javelin launchers, so he didn’t move fast, that’s for sure. Then he found a small dip in the terrain. He swiveled around and crawled to the lip. He was a football field and a half away from the snowmobile. He couldn’t spy Romo. This was Apache-style warfare, wasn’t it?

Paul breathed heavily, and he hoped this special suit did indeed camouflage him from the hovertanks’ sensors.

In the distance a hovertank cannon roared with a belch of flame. Its shell howled in flight, and it blew up the snowmobile, making it jump and turning it into a mess of flying junk.

Paul readied a Javelin launcher. Through his visor, he watched the hovertanks approach the crumbled snowmobile. Each battle-vehicle rode on a cushion of air. The things floated like science fiction machines. Some of the armored skirts looked shot-up. One of the machine guns on a turret had crumbled. These Chinese hovers had been through a lot of wear and tear. That was something at least.

Paul waited. What a war. The Chinese and Brazilians tried to conquer a continent. That was just too much territory. How many hundreds of thousands of soldiers had died already? Maybe millions had perished, or they would before this was over. This crazy new Ice Age with its mass worldwide starvation…was U.S. land worth this much blood, sweat and tears? His own—yeah, it was worth it. But why did the individual Chinese soldier bother? He’d heard about the need for marriage permits. Did the Chinese want hot American babes for wives?

Once he died, was one of these grasping invaders going to get Cheri?

“I don’t think so,” he muttered.

He could hear the hovertanks now. They were loud. The engines whined like giant snowmobiles.

A flash of light erupted to the west of the first hovertank. Romo—the idiot—he fired too soon.

The flash or sprouting flame kept going, and it wasn’t bright enough to be a Javelin launch. Paul heard hammering bangs—bullets striking hovertank armor. There were pings and a crash of reinforced plate glass.

That’s a heavy machine gun firing. Someone else is out here with us. Is that who the helo had been hunting? Partisans?

Machine guns returned fire from the hovertanks. It took all of ten seconds. The flash of heavy machine gun fire in the snow ended as quickly as it had begun. Hovertanks one, partisans zero.

That’s it then. Paul aimed a Javelin, and then he pulled the trigger. The missile popped out and whooshed away in a rush.

Dropping the empty launcher, Paul rolled and grabbed the other one. Then he crawled like a man possessed. Machine gun fire opened up around him. Bullets whined overhead. Others thudded into the ground uncomfortably near. Fortunately, he’d chosen his location well. None of the slugs hit him because he had this concealing fold of ground. Paul kept crawling until sweat beaded into his eyes.

He swiveled around, and he dared to look up over the lip of terrain. Two of the hovertanks burned nicely. One had a thin oily fume spiraling into the night sky. Two hits, but he’d only fired one missile.

The other one must be Romo’s Javelin. Good shooting, Tonto.

Now another heavy machine gun opened up from the ground. There came more bright flashes of light and more hammering strikes against enemy armor.

The remaining five hovertanks opened up again, silencing this machine gun as well. Hovertanks scored two against the partisans. Marine recon tally was two against the hovertanks. It sucked to be a partisan.

Paul waited. Romo must have waited as well. Either that or the Chinese had already killed his blood brother. Paul could have called on the radio to check, but he was sure the Chinese would have a locator to pinpoint their positions then.

Five hovertanks now approached the blown snowmobile.

“Screw this,” Paul muttered. He sighted his last Javelin, and he fired. Another Javelin from the right appeared.

That’s all Paul had time to see. He crawled away again. Now he had nothing but a sidearm. The M-16 was on the snowmobile. He realized as he crawled that Romo must have waited each time for him to fire. Give the enemy two missiles at once to worry about—that was battle wise.

Paul heard an explosion. Scratch one more hovertank, he hoped. He waited for the second explosion, but it never came.

Finally, from his new location, Paul stopped and eased up to look. Another hovertank burned. Good. That left four. Those four—

The hovertanks whined with loud engine revs. They zoomed away across the snow, floating away from the wrecked snowmobile and toward the American rear areas. Perhaps they wanted to hunt easier game.

Paul grinned tightly. Maybe the hovertank commander figured this was too costly, fighting invisible Americans who kept taking out his vehicles. The enemy commander couldn’t know they were out of Javelins. All the Chinese commander knew was that three of his hovers burned from “partisan” attacks.

Paul watched the hovertanks float away. After a time, he stood, and he saw others stand, four men. He used the night visor to see them. Make that one man and three women in thick parkas. They carried hunting rifles and shotguns, and they advanced on the burning hovertanks. He saw Romo stand next and wave to him.

The partisans killed the Chinese who survived the burning vehicles. They were a hard-eyed group, taking the rest of the Javelins for themselves, as well as Paul’s M-16. He let them. A helo was on the way to pick Romo and him up. His blood brother had survived, thank God.

When he approached them, the partisans didn’t speak much to Paul or Romo. They had lost three older men, who had been firing captured Chinese machine guns at the hovertanks. Their looks accused him, as if to say, “Why can’t you defeat these invaders? Why are you leaving it to us to do your dirty work?”

It was a good question, even if it was unspoken. Paul thought about it during the ride back to SOCOM HQ, Army Group Washington.

This was a bitch of a war.

Are we winning or losing? And when will we know?

Paul shrugged as he sat at the door of the helo. The snowy ground rushed past one hundred feet below. Someone would tell him when America had won. Until then, he’d keep fighting. What else could he do?

Corporal Jake Higgins threw up his hood. It was bitterly cold this morning in the trench. He slapped his gloved hands together, rubbing them. When he was finished with the exercise, he used his teeth and pulled off the right glove. Using his finger, he tapped a computer scroll.

It was a tech gift from their neighboring Mexico Home Army battalion. Really, the battalion was down to a platoon in strength after the bitter weeks of defending Greater Denver. The Home Army Mexicans were a tough group, excellent soldiers.

The scroll was linked to an armored video camera at the top of the trench. It beat using a periscope, which is what they had been using until this nifty little device.

Jake scanned the blasted cityscape. Only a few skeletal buildings remained. Mostly, he saw was snowy rubble and frozen body-parts of Chinese and Americans alike. Artillery shells had turned over the terrain a thousand different times these past weeks.

He recalled the first week of battle. What a difference. Only a few of those Militiamen still lived. He wore Chinese body armor. Everyone did, including the Lieutenant.

Oh-oh, what was this? Jake spied movement on his scroll. “Goose,” he said.

Goose poked his head out of a hole in the side of the trench. The man was gaunt and dirty. They all were. Goose had the far-off stare in his eyes. They all had that too, including the Lieutenant.

“What’s up?” Goose asked.

Jake pointed toward the enemy line.

“I thought it was your turn,” Goose said.

Jake shook his head.

Goose crawled out of the small cave. He used the steps, climbing up to the machine gun platform.

“They’re getting clever,” Jake said. “It’s a robot. I’ve never seen one like this. Mark seven-three-seven.”

Goose checked his tablet, nodding as he tucked the device away in a cavity in his body armor. He exhaled, blowing out white steam. Then he grabbed the butterfly controls and surged upward.

Jake watched on the computer scroll as the heavy machine gun chattered hard. Bullets whizzed across no-man’s-land, hammering at the target. The small, turtle-like robot blew out metal parts. A gun appeared from its turret, but he steel-jacketed .50 caliber bullets didn’t give the Chinese robot time to fire. The robot scout stopped, frozen in time.

“Down!” shouted Jake.

Goose ducked, moving the machine gun mount down with him.

Seconds later, the hiss of enemy bullets came from overhead.

“Let’s move,” Jake said.

They ran along the trench with their shoulders hunched. Enemy mortar shells landed, exploding ice, snow and dirt. Particles trickled into the trench.

“You’re welcome,” Jake muttered to no one in particular, with his back now pressed against the freezing dirt wall.

“When is this going to end?” Goose asked.

“You’re one to talk,” Jake said. “You’re a protester. You got to prove you love your country by bleeding to death in the snow.”

Neither said a word afterward. They endured, as everyone in the pocket waited for the end. The big question was how. Would they freeze to death when the wood ran out? Or would they starve to death? If it became too much suspense, one could climb up into no-man’s-land. Many had. That would end the game quickly.

At this point in the siege, all the quitters were long gone, dead or captured. The hardened survivors waited, inurned to terrible punishment and deprivation.

Commander Bao of MC ABM #3 scowled so fiercely his eyes had almost disappeared between two slits. The angry face was not due to the orders to move out. He was sick of the city siege and sick of using his great laser to blast strongpoints. The scowl was not because of the cold weather that refused to let up.

No, he made the terrible face because his ulcer hurt abominably. He was out of the soothing bottle. He’d drunk the last of it yesterday and the quartermaster said there wouldn’t be another consignment for some time. The Americans had sunk the supply ship that carried more.

Therefore, Bao was in agony as he sat in the giant tractor cab that pulled the three segments of his Mobile Canopy ABM. He looked out the window, but hardly saw a thing. The sun shone, so his lack of sight wasn’t due to falling snow. He hardly saw because the ulcer pain was beginning to overmaster him.

Bao opened his mouth, panting silently.

The driver must have noticed. “Is something wrong, Commander?” the man asked, sounding worried.

Bao shook his head. He didn’t want to speak and let the man hear the pain in his voice. He put his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. He wanted the aching to stop, but he couldn’t let himself think about it. He had a great task to perform. Marshal Liang himself had spoken to all the MC ABM commanders via computer screen.

Bao understood how important his next fight would be. China had the T-66 tank, and the Americans had trumped it with the Behemoth. Now Marshal Liang wished to trump the American marvel with one of Chinese’s latest technological inventions.

As Bao panted silently, he realized that he hadn’t trained in tank tactics. None of the MC ABM commanders had. This was a makeshift use of a great air-defense laser.

We used our lasers in Denver and it gave the city to the Army. Now we must deliver our Army from a surprise attack.

Bao realized his mother must have seen this moment long ago in her dreams. Why else had she always told him to do his best? The fate of the great invasion—Liang had told them—rested on the coming fight. The lasers must defeat the rail-guns.

Shutting his eyes, Bao listened to his stomach grumble. He wanted something to eat. He always did when he became nervous. But if he ate, his ulcer would only become worse. No. He must fast or he must find some milk to drink. Unfortunately, he hated the taste of milk. He needed ulcer medicine. Why did the American submarines have to sink that supply ship?

Concentrate, Bao. You still have to fix several critical problems before the fight.

There were nine operational MC ABMs trundling toward the ambush positions. According to Marshal Liang, eighteen Behemoths converged toward Denver. Therefore, each MC ABM needed to destroy two of the American super-tanks. Of course, Liang had told them he would help even the odds with a fierce air attack at precisely the right moment.

You’re not concentrating on the right thing, Bao.

MC ABM #3 needed new laser coils, and fresh coolant in bin-washer seven. He needed to make sure that each was repaired before the coming battle. All the MC ABMs had beamed often during the siege. The endless laser use meant deterioration in the high-tech equipment. Yes, he needed to recalibrate the mirrors as well. This would be a precision battle, as the MC ABMs needed to engage the Behemoths at the farthest distance possible.

How hot a ray did they need in order to burn through a Behemoth’s plate? How long would he have to keep the laser on target to destroy the heavily-armored tank. An enemy missile or aircraft had tinfoil armor compared to the approaching land-monsters.

What’s the effective range of their rail-guns?

Nervousness only made the ulcer worse. The MC ABMs were leaving Denver to go to their ambush points. The Americans drove for the city, smashing everything before them. Soon now, the enemy tanks would face a tech marvel greater and stronger than their rail-guns.

Stan dreamed and he didn’t like it. He began to shake. It seemed as if his whole world was under assault. Maybe it was an earthquake.

He opened his eyes, waking up to reality. He realized that someone touched him. No, they had been shaking him. He looked up. Jose stood over him, with a hand on his shoulder.

“You sleep like the dead,” Jose told him.

Groggily, Stan sat up. He was in a tent beside his Behemoth. They’d stopped near I-70. This part of the freeway system was much different from the system in the Rockies. Here, the land was Great Plains flat. Stan had called a halt because everyone had been exhausted. It was vital to keep rolling, moving toward the enemy, but sometimes, a commander had to give himself and his men a badly needed rest.

“Is it morning already?” Stan muttered.

“I woke you because General McGraw wants to speak to you.”

“He’s here?”

“He’s on a tight-linked screen,” Jose said.

Stan struggled to his feet and put on his clothes. He accepted a thermos of hot coffee. He wanted to crawl back into the sleeping bag, but that was impossible now. He checked his watch. It was almost six A.M. He wanted to be moving again by six forty-five.

Eating a bagel and washing it down with scalding coffee, Stan climbed into the Behemoth and took his place in the commander’s chair. He was getting sick of the compartment, as if he’d lived here weeks. It smelled like a mixture of a gym locker room and a mechanic’s shop: sweat and grease.

He tapped the screen and General Tom McGraw appeared. The big man was bent over his desk, hard at work.

Stan sipped coffee.

The general must have noticed the movement on his own screen. He put down his pen, straightened and nodded a greeting.

“Hello, Colonel,” McGraw said.

“Sorry, I was asleep just now and—”

“No, don’t apologize,” McGraw said. “You’re in the middle of the most important offensive in American history. In thirty minutes, you’re off again. I want to speak to you a moment before that. Are you alone?”

“Yes sir.”

“None of that now, old son,” McGraw said. “This is you and me talking. We’re older than we used to be, but we were friends once.”

“True enough,” Stan said.

“I think we’ve surprised the enemy, Stan. We’ve surprised them good. You’ve gotten farther faster than I would have thought. But the game enters the hard part now. The Chinese have regrouped. It looks like Zhen’s Tank Army is going to hit us in the flank today. By the looks of it, the Chinese are trying to cut you off by driving through to the Brazilians. The Brazilians are going to try the same thing on their side. We figured they would do something like that. Since our Militia formations have been tardy taking up their assigned defensive positions, I’ve ordered the Canadian First Army to turn back. They’ll have to deal with General Zhen, buying the struggling Militia divisions time to get their trenches built and defended.”

“What about the Brazilians on the other side of our penetration?” Stan asked. This sounded bad.

“I’m hoping the Brazilians are tardy and will give us time. Marshal Sanchez is still reorganizing from the collapse of his Venezuelan corps. In any case, I have some scout units and Bradleys who are supposed to buy the First Army time against the Brazilians. The Canadians are going to have to face two attacks. If the enemy can coordinate the assaults…it will get a lot harder for the First Army to keep the corridor open. If the Chinese and Brazilians strike separately, we might keep this offensive alive. If we can close the trap, Stan, I think it will bring an end to the war.”

“That sounds good to me,” Stan said.

McGraw grinned, showing off his big horse-sized teeth. “You’re wondering why I woke you up to tell you that—the Canadian information isn’t pertinent for what you’re going to attempt today. Well, old son, I wanted to tell you because you have a bigger job than the Canadian First Army.”

Stan raised his eyebrows.

“Listen, Higgins, you’ve seen the Chinese laser tank before on video out of Denver, haven’t you?”

“I have.”

“We have intelligence data that shows they’re going to try to bar your path with those laser vehicles.”

Stan nodded. It’s what he would do in their place. He’d been expecting to hear something like this for some time now.

“Can you beat those MC ABMs, Stan?”

“I’m going to try, sir.”

McGraw scowled. “That isn’t good enough. I don’t give a damn if you try. You’d better beat them. You’d better kill all those laser tanks without losing any Behemoths.”

“You don’t really think that is going to happen,” Stan said.

“That’s what I want to have happen.”

“So how am I supposed to do that?” Stan asked.

“As a matter of fact, I’ll tell you. I’ve studied photos of those vehicles. Old son, they’re huge, much bigger than your Behemoths are. I don’t think they’re tank-armored, though. They’re meant to shoot down missiles, ballistic missiles in particular. This use of them—”

“It’s like Rommel’s 88s,” Stan said.

“I’m sure you’re right.” McGraw checked his watch. “We don’t have time for more history lessons. So listen, Higgins. The laser will surely have reach on you.”

“I’d think the longer their reach the weaker the beam.”

“How do you figure that?” asked McGraw.

“A flashlight’s beam spreads out over distance. It dissipates. It becomes weaker. The same must be true of a laser tank.”

“There’s no way to know if that’s enough,” McGraw said.

“Still, it has to be able to shoot pretty far to knock down missiles in the stratosphere,” Stan said. “Twenty or thirty miles to hit our tanks…”

“They are precision weapons,” McGraw said. “Probably they can shoot and hit targets at a much greater range than you. I’m hoping it takes that laser too long to burn through your armor.”

“How much time it takes is the key,” Stan said.

“That and your mobility,” McGraw said.

“We’re not exactly nimble, General.”

“No. But by moving around it should throw off the beam just enough. In fact, the farther you’re from them, the less you’ll have to move to throw them off. It’s your thick armor and zigzagging that will get you in close to hit one of the MC ABMs.”

“We’re going to take damage today,” Stan said. Maybe we’re all going to die. Stan grew thoughtful. “If I were them, I’d give our Behemoths more to think about than just the lasers.”

“We plan to do the same thing to them,” McGraw said.

The implication of the words sank in. Stan straightened in his seat. “You’re taking over the tactical coordination of the attack?”

“Stan old son, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Now listen up, here’s what I’m thinking.”

Captain Tzu in his Heron bomber bored in toward the most forward American penetration toward Denver.

The pilot glanced outside. It was bright and sunny today. Far below, the sun shined off the vast expanse of snow. How could men fight in that amazingly white brightness?

Tzu frowned. He needed to concentrate. There were seven other bombers with him. The eight of them were part of twenty-nine Herons attacking the Behemoth tanks. Each of the standoff bombers carried four air-to-ground missiles. The missiles were special tank busters, very big and very fast, with ECM to survive enemy counterattacks.

Tzu licked his lips. He recalled the Behemoth tanks all right. They had been waiting for him in the Rockies weeks ago now. Since then, Tzu had been busy bombing Greater Denver and making more attack runs on I-70 in the Rockies. Actually, he’d made long-range attacks on the repair parties trying to fix the freeway from Chinese ballistic bombardments.

Earlier this morning the briefing officer had told them how important the mission was. The American offensive had driven much deeper than anyone had expected. Marshal Liang had plans for these over-bold Americans. First, though, Liang needed the Behemoths destroyed. Tzu’s bombers were the key to that, or so the briefing officer had told them.

As Tzu sat up here in the bright sunshine, he had his doubts about that. The Behemoths had destroyed one hundred Goshawks in a matter of minutes in the Rockies. Here, the Behemoths would have even better targeting conditions.

There was another thing troubling him. Captain Tzu had been hearing for months now how each of his bombing runs was utterly critical to the war effort. He had fired many missiles and launched even more Goshawks. High Command had told the bomber teams many weeks ago that the Americans were almost finished. Yet now the enemy was on the verge of reaching Denver. If the Behemoths completed the encirclement, the Americans would have trapped Third Front in a gigantic cauldron.

How could twenty-seven Herons bring about a great enough victory to change that? Tzu didn’t know. But that didn’t matter now—there were many things he didn’t understand. What he did know was that he had a task to perform. As always, he hoped to survive the battle.

The longer this war lasted, the less likely that would be. One of these days, the enemy had to get lucky. The law of averages demanded it.

“Are you ready?” Tzu asked his navigator.

“Yes Captain,” the navigator said.

“Then radio HQ and tell them we’re nearing attack position,” Tzu said. “I’m curious to see how our missiles do against the Behemoths.”

Anna Chen sat in Underground Bunker Number Five. Like everyone else present, she was excited and terribly worried about today. The great spearhead of the American Counterattack—the Behemoth tanks—were about to face the dreaded Chinese laser system.

She’d watched the grim footage of the weapons destroying Denver bunkers and strongpoints. One seemed to peel away bricks so they tumbled to the ground and exploded into fragments there. She’d heard those beams explained by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Initially, the MC ABMs had been mobile strategic lasers to protect the Chinese from missiles and massed air power. Someone on the Chinese side had seen another use for the vehicles.

General Alan was speaking, explaining once again how the Siege of Denver had tied down critically needed Chinese Armies. Marshal Liang might have deployed those armies north, speeding the Chinese attack. General Alan believed those “missing” armies had been the margin. The Third Front’s drive toward Cheyenne and the North Platte River Defense had been contained these past weeks, although they had lost Cheyenne in bitter street-to-street fighting. If the Tenth and Fifteenth Armies had added their considerable weight to the attack, the North Platte River Line would have ruptured. As that line had mostly been composed of Militia formations, the Chinese would likely have encircled and annihilated them. America would have lacked the necessary numbers then to launch the counter-offensive.

“If Liang would have been content to smash the Rocky Mountain I-70 and mask Denver with a ring of garrison troops, he could have sent the Tenth and Fifteenth Armies north,” Alan said.

The President finally entered the chamber. After everyone had sat back down, Sims turned to General Alan.

“Are the ballistic missiles ready?” the President asked.

Alan nodded.

“Put me through to General McGraw,” Sims said.

Soon, General McGraw appeared on the wall screen. He stood in his headquarters, surrounded by staff and screens. It was a flurry of activity there, with a buzz of talking people. At last, Tom McGraw turned to Sims.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” McGraw said.

“No, no, that’s quite all right, General,” Sims said. “Are the Behemoths in position?”

McGraw motioned to someone off-screen. “If you’ll allow me, sir, I can patch the tactical situation through to your computers.”

“By all means,” Sims said. “Let’s see that.”

On the great computer table in Underground Bunker Number Five appeared the present spearhead of Army Group Washington.

McGraw explained what they were seeing. “The two divisions of Jeffersons—the 10th and 21st Armored Divisions—are spread out in a wide arc before the Behemoths. They’re the screen, sir. If the enemy uses T-66s or other armor, the Jeffersons are to engage and destroy them. If it’s Chinese missiles or air attacks, the Jeffersons will link their targeting computers and provide a wall of counter-missile or anti-air fire.”

“And if the enemy laser tanks take out the Jeffersons?” Sims asked.

“It’s what I hope they try to do, sir,” McGraw said. “That will give me time to study their capabilities.”

“All while they’re destroying our newest main battle tanks,” Sims said, angrily.

“Yes sir, that’s exactly right.”

“You’re a hard-hearted man, General.”

McGraw’s face tightened. “No more than you are, Mr. President.”

Anna glanced sharply at David Sims. Something dark passed before the President’s face. He didn’t like the comment, but he let it pass.

“When do you fire the ballistic missiles?” the President asked.

“Right after the laser tanks open fire. I want to know exactly where those Chinese MC ABMs are before we launch the missiles. Sir, those heavy stations are slow or practically immobile in a tactical sense. As important, through radar and thermal imaging our AIs will be able to track the beams directly to their sources. I consider that a flaw in the Chinese weapon system.”

“I hope you’re right, General.”

“So do I, Mr. President. I know you know the old saying. No plan of battle survives contact with the enemy. Today we’re going to—”

McGraw turned away as someone spoke to him urgently. A moment later, he faced the screen. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but if you’ll excuse me.”

“Get to work, General. Kick the Chinese in the teeth.”

“Roger that, Mr. President.”

Commander Bao of MC ABM #3 nervously sat in his command chair. The three sections of the laser vehicle sat on a hill in the outskirts of shattered Aurora. The city belonged to Greater Denver and was the closest to I-70 heading out onto the Great Plains.

From here, the laser vehicle had an excellent line of sight. The other MC ABMs were also in position. Already, Bao watched inflowing data from high-flying UAVs.

Smaller American tanks were between him and the approaching Behemoths. Marshal Liang had a surprise for those tanks, but that would take time to make it happen.

Bao swallowed and desperately tried not to think about his stomach. He had a carton of milk in his chair compartment, but he hadn’t opened it yet. He was so hungry. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday. He couldn’t afford to eat now. The combination made his mind a little fuzzy, but he would force such fuzziness away through willpower.

His mother had often told him he had a strong intellect, a strong will. Now was the time to use it. China watched him today. Marshal Liang had let the Mobile Canopy commanders know that Chairman Hong personally monitored the situation.

For such a time as this I was born, Bao told himself. Today, the giants fight for world supremacy.

The crew awaited his word. Each man sat at his station. Techs had replaced the worn lasers coils. New coolant gurgled in the bin-washers. Bao had carefully inspected the vehicle last night, all the interchanges and the hookups. The six hundred ton tier-system rested in a level position. If needed, the tractor would pull them behind the hill. Such an action would take time, and once they moved, it would take hours to recalibrate. The key was to save the MC ABM if the American Behemoths could do the impossible and outrange the lasers.

“The enemy tanks, Commander—”

“I see it,” Bao said, with an edge to his voice. His ulcer hurt. He was hungry and feeling woozy, but he was still in charge of the MC ABM #3.

Sitting in his chair, surrounded by his screens, Bao watched data from high-flying UAVs. The great lumbering Behemoths rolled over the last blocking ridge. Bao tapped a console. The first Behemoth was a little over forty-one kilometers away.

“Prepare for firing,” Bao said, as he put his headphones/mufflers over his ears. The left one was sore and he winced from the hard contact.

Everyone else put on headphones, too.

“Engage the turbine,” Bao said.

The MPT whined into life, and the command compartment shook. Bao, along with the entire crew, winced at the howl. HQ had ordered the MC ABM #3 into action too many times these past weeks. It had fired far too often. Bao had replaced many worn components, but not all of them. Liang would have been wiser to save the laser vehicles for this critical moment, but hindsight was always more accurate than foresight.

The MPT sounded off, but it still worked.

“Energy levels rising, Commander. In twenty seconds, the laser will be ready.”

Bao nodded. The fuzziness in his mind faded as his adrenaline surged. He sat forward in his chair. The great moment of his life had arrived. It was inspiring. His frown evened away to a calm appearance. He forgot about the pain in his ears.

“Engage the lead Behemoth,” Bao said.

The MPT pumped massive power into the laser coils. The energy poured into the chambers and pumped the laser. The incredibly heavy beam struck the first focusing mirror. Then it shot out of the cannon in a tight ray, traveling at the speed of light and crossing the forty-one kilometers instantly.

Bao curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist.

“Miss,” the targeting officer said.

“Recalibrate,” Bao said, refusing to raise his voice. He could imagine American surprise, seeing the ground burn near the tank. He wanted the enemy to face an even greater surprise.

“We’re ready,” the targeting officer said.

“Fire,” Bao said once more.

The massive beam shot again, and this time it struck the Behemoth.

“Keep the beam on target,” Bao said. His eyes itched as he stared at the screen. Would it work? Did the MC ABM #3 have the power to burn through the thick armor?

“The tank is moving, Commander,” the targeting officer said.

“Keep the beam on target,” Bao said.

The MPT’s howl turned into something fiercer. Despite himself, Bao’s face screwed up in pain. The magnetic-propulsion turbine wasn’t supposed to sound like that. Bao clamped his hands around the headphones/mufflers, pressing them against his ears to protect his hearing from the horrible sound.

He watched the screen. The beam struck the same tank again. The enemy vehicle kept moving. The ferocious beam speared across the forty-one kilometers. It stayed on one spot now, burning and melting into the incredible armor. Much of the heat dissipated throughout the rest of the armor. The front plate began to glow. Liquid metal poured away as the beam chewed deeper into the armor. Then the beam breached the mighty Behemoth and exploded the power plant inside. A tremendous explosion blew off the top turret hatch. Flames geysered twenty meters high. The giant enemy vehicle ground to a halt, its crew dead and burned and its vitals destroyed.

“We killed it, Commander!” the targeting officer shouted.

“Good,” Bao said. “Shut down the MPT.”

Immediately, the horrible howl quit.

“Red levels in octagon regions,” the Engine Tech said.

“Flush it with number seven coolant,” Bao said. “We’re going to need the laser soon.”

“The recommended wait is twenty minutes, Commander.”

“No,” Bao said. “You have three. Now begin the procedure, we lack time for further discussion.”

“Fire!” Stan shouted from his commander’s seat.

For the seventh time so far, the mighty engine revved and supplied power to the rail-gun. A surge shook the tank. The penetrator roared from the cannon and sped at Mach 10 toward the hateful laser tanks.

Forty-one kilometers was longer than effective rail-gun accuracy. They were deadly accurate within ten kilometers. They could hit most of the time at twenty. Forty-one was too much for battlefield accuracy, although the shells had no problem reaching that far.

“Miss,” the gunner said.

Stan could see that on his screen.

“We’re heating up,” Jose shouted.

Stan heard the hateful sound once more. A heavy laser beam chewed through the armor. It was a bubbling noise and a high-pitch screech.

“Move, move, move!” Stan shouted.

He’d already lost three Behemoths to the lasers.

The air-conditioners began to hum and sweat beaded onto Stan’s face. The heat rose to an intolerable level in here. The great Behemoth lurched to the right and then it spun on one giant tread, and went back and left. The beam missed now, flashing past.

The terrible heat in the compartment lessened as the air conditioner did its work and because the laser no longer poured heat onto the tank.

“Fire again,” Stan shouted.

The engine revved, the surge came and Stan pushed out of his seat and climbed up, throwing open the hatch. He looked down. The front armor was still red hot, and there were three big burn holes, but none had breached the hull. Some of the melted metal had cooled into strange-looking lumps. Stan looked back, and he saw steam rise from clumps of burned-off Behemoth armor sitting in melted snow.

As Stan watched, Dan Clifford’s tank ground to a halt. The front armor was glowing red, with a hole in it. The top hatch blew away. Flames roared upward.

With a sick feeling, Stan slid back down to his seat. “Fire in a spread around our target,” he said. “Do it one right after the other. We have to hit one of those bastards or we’re all dead.”

Surge after surge powered out of the Behemoth. Each penetrator roared across the distance at Mach 10. Each missed except for the last. It hammered into the MPT trailer, cutting through the armor with ease. A terrific explosion caused the armored compartment to blow apart in a glorious and billowing geyser. It knocked out the first MC ABM on the enemy side.

Inside his tank, Colonel Stan Higgins led the cheering. “Keep doing that!” he shouted. He picked up the microphone and called the other commanders, telling them what he’d just done. He wanted them to barrage-fire into an area, hoping that one of the penetrators hit the targeted MC ABMs.

Captain Tzu took the Heron down low. With the other seven bombers, he roared at the American Behemoths. The order had finally come through.

“Tracking,” the navigator said.

Tzu pulled a lever. The standoff bomber shuddered. One of its big air-to-ground missiles detached from the bay and dropped. Its rocket engine fired and the missile shot toward the distant Behemoths, quickly gaining speed.

Tzu did the same thing again, dropping another missile.

“Captain!” the bomb specialist shouted. He monitored the Heron’s defensive gear.

Tzu looked back at the man.

“Americans missiles—”

The bomb specialist never had a chance to finish his sentence. A flock of anti-air missiles arrived from the Jefferson MBTs nearest the Herons.

An anti-air missile struck the left side, hitting the planet at the joint between the fuselage and wing. The warhead ignited, tearing the wing from the plane and creating a huge hole.

Captain Tzu looked through the opening. Then the Heron turned on its wounded side and began to plunge earthward. Tzu’s seatbelt held him in place. It felt like a hot poker had thrust through his gut. The fuselage began to spin faster and faster. He had been right about the law of averages. One of these times, the Americans would hit and destroy his bomber.

Centrifugal force rendered Tzu unconscious seconds before the Heron plowed into the pristine snow and exploded in a fiery ball of destruction.

Commander Bao clamped his hands to his headphones/mufflers. The whine of the MPT had risen to another pitch of unbearable. A hazy fume of smoke drifted through the main compartment.

The laser had operated much longer than it ever had during the Siege of Denver. Things were going wrong with the turbine and the laser coils had begun to overheat.

“Destruction!” the targeting officer said.

“We’ve destroyed two Behemoths,” Bao told the crew. Despite the smoke, the ulcer and the pounding in his head, Bao was proud. He had achieved greatness. He had destroyed two American super-tanks.

“Shut down the turbine,” he said. “We’re moving out.”

The targeting officer cast him a sharp glance. Other crewmembers shot him a look of relief.

“Is something wrong?” Bao asked the targeting officer.

The unbearable whine lessened and then went off altogether.

Bao shoulder muscles loosened.

“We haven’t received orders to move,” the targeting officer said. “We—”

“Ballistic missiles!” a crewmember shouted.

Bao snapped to his screens. Ah, the Americans attacked with missiles.

“Start up the turbine,” he said.

The turbine chief tapped the switch. He did it again because nothing appeared to happen the first time.

“Start it up now,” Bao said.

The man swiveled toward him. “It won’t start, Commander. It’s overheated.”

“Use override,” Bao said.

The man typed on his screen and began shaking his head. “We must have burned out the override system,” the man said.

Bao licked his lips nervously.

“You shouldn’t have shut off the turbine,” the targeting officer said.

Bao gave the man a withering glance. Who was he to give him a reprimand?

“Commander Bao,” his superior officer said from a screen. “Do you see the incoming ballistic missiles?”

“The turbine has overheated and won’t come back online,” Bao said.

The superior blinked at him. “You must fire at them.”

“I cannot,” Bao said. “I do wish to report two Behemoth kills, however.”

“Start your turbine!” the superior shouted.

Commander Bao shook his head. “It is inoperative. I suggest I move back out of range for repairs.”

The superior stared at him a full three seconds. “Yes!” he shouted. “Do it.”

Bao didn’t glance at the targeting officer. That would seem too much like gloating. Instead, he informed the tractor driver to engage his vehicle’s drive system and take them down behind this hill.

His part in the battle was over.

Colonel Higgins wanted to weep. He’d lost seven Behemoths so far and knocked out only two MC ABMs.

The laser vehicles kept pouring fire, and then he lost the eighth tank.

Should I retreat? No. It’s be too late for that. All I can do is charge in a zigzag. “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” he muttered to himself.

This was a regiment, though, not a brigade, and it wasn’t light but had the heaviest super-tanks ever built. Were the Behemoths already obsolete?

“Stan—I mean Colonel,” Jose said.

Stan looked over at his friend.

“The Chinese have stopped firing at us.”

“Do you know—” Before Stan could finish his question, he stared at McGraw on his third screen.

“I’ve sent ballistic missiles at them, Colonel.”

“What?” Stan asked.

“Didn’t you hear me earlier?”

Stan was too dazed to remember. He’d lost eight Behemoths and only destroyed two enemy laser tanks. This was terrible. Now he knew what it felt like to be a T-66 versus a Behemoth.

“Advance now,” McGraw was saying. “Get closer while they’re focused on the ballistic missiles. I fired the missiles to come in bunches. I want to keep the MC ABMs busy in order to buy you time to get closer.”

“Yes sir, General,” Stan said. He got on the microphone and shouted the orders to the others. He wanted to be Mr. Calm, but he couldn’t do it now. He was too full of adrenaline.

He watched the three screens. The enemy knocked down the ballistic missiles one right after the other. Doing so kept the Chinese lasers and SAM sites busy, though. It brought the surviving Behemoths another kilometer closer.

The enemy had seven MC ABMs left. Actually, it only had five left that could fire. According to his screen, two were pulling out.

“We’re one kilometer closer,” Stan said. “Let’s pour it on now, gentlemen. Let’s kill these invaders and finish the fight.”

The force cannon surged once more. Penetrators flew at Mach 10. The range was still too much for perfect accuracy. It was close enough, however, that the penetrators began to hit with greater frequency, perhaps one shot in ten.

That was more than enough. One after another, the MC ABMs blew up and burned spectacularly. One in particular flew up into the air. Six hundred tons blew fifty feet high before smashing down to the ground. Stan would never know it, but that one had been MC ABM #3.

Commander Bao would never again have to worry about his ulcer. He had been turned into pulped flesh, boiled blood and pulverized bones, disappearing from life and history, a red smear on a hill in Aurora, Colorado.

Two East Lightning operatives marched Guardian Inspector Shun Li toward Xiao’s office in the Police Ministry. They were about to turn into the selected corridor. Before they could, a large old military man with rows of gaudy medals on his chest limped in front of them, coming out of that corridor. An escort walked with the officer.

Shun Li stopped in surprise. One of the operatives behind her didn’t notice in time and bumped against her, propelling her against the old man.

The old military officer caught her, and he peered down into her face, breathing a foul odor.

“Excuse me, please,” Shun Li said.

The old man shoved her away so several of his medals tinkled against each other. He turned, scowling at his escort.

“This way, Marshal,” the escort said in a subservient tone.

As she straightened her uniform, Shun Li had time to notice several things. The escort took the highly decorated marshal down a hall that would lead to the underground garage. The implication was that this Marshal of China hadn’t come through the front doors, but through a hidden route. Shun Li watched them, and she realized that she recognized the man’s limp from TV footage. That was Marshal Gang, the leader of the PAA First Front in California. He had taken over after Marshal Nung had perished against American commandos.

“We must hurry,” one of the operatives told her.

Shun Li didn’t think so. Hurrying to Xiao’s office now would likely be disastrous for her.

“A moment, please,” she said. “My shoe is untied.” She knelt and pulled apart the shoestrings. “There’s grain in my shoe.” She pulled off the shoe and then her sock, pulling it inside out and shaking it, pretending to watch bits of dust or gravel fall.

Her toenails were orange painted. She’d forgotten about that. She tried to hide that from the operatives. East Lightning Guardian Inspectors shouldn’t paint their toenails. Shun Li had begun doing that after several intimate meetings with Tang, the original Lion Guardsman who had invaded her hotel room. She went to Chairman Hong’s country residence every day, usually driven by Tang. Weeks of conversation in the car had led to one thing and then another. She painted her toes orange because Tang said he liked that, and she’d discovered that she indeed liked the big Lion Guardsman.

“Look,” one of the operatives said.

Shun Li looked up. The operative tugged the other man’s sleeve and pointed at her orange toenails.

That was the problem with East Lightning operatives, especially ones working this near the Police Minister. Secret policemen were trained to observe. They were ferrets sniffing out disloyalty to the state. To do so, they often looked for the smallest of clues that would give a person away.

The second operative laughed. “Orange toenails, Shun Li?”

She shrugged, smiling at the man.

He did not smile back. Instead, with such a serious look in his eyes, he was obviously filing the information away. Xiao would have likely tasked these two with studying her behavior. The toenail painting would go into the databanks concerning her personality. On such little things could a career—or a life—hang.

I am a barracuda among killer whales and great white sharks.

Yet even barracuda’s had eyes, and they could think and file information away, too. She stalled now in the hallway for an excellent reason. Marshal Gang of First Front should be in California, of that she was certain. It would be easy to discover if he’d made a trip to China. If he had not made an overt trip, then logic dictated he had some covertly. Shun Li had spent much of her time studying the political situation—her life depended on it, as she was a mole in the Chairman’s estate for the Police Minister.

Chairman Hong disliked Marshal Gang. The old man with the chest full of medals had belonged to the discredited faction backing dead Foreign Minister Deng. At the end of the California invasion, Hong had instructed Xiao to shoot Deng.

Why had Hong left Gang in military control in California? Shun Li didn’t know the answer to that. Likely, it was for reasons of political maneuvering. The military and especially China’s Army represented the most powerful political bloc in the world. Hong needed to tread lightly with them and at the same time keep them disunited and terrorized if he could.

If Gang had belonged to Foreign Minister Deng’s side, the Marshal probably resented Deng’s untimely passing. He might even want revenge. Certainly, he would have resentments against Hong.

Therefore, the conclusion was terrifying to Shun Li. If Gang had secretly flown to China to meet with the Police Minister, then it would appear that a dangerously advanced coup might be in the making.

Did Xiao fear for his position? Did the Police Minister resent the Chairman’s questioning of her concerning him? Did it even matter what the reason was?

Shun Li stalled because she did not want to enter Xiao’s office so soon after Marshal Gang had left it. The Police Minister might realize she had seen Gang. And there was something she had learned about Xiao Yang these past weeks. He was thorough to an extraordinary degree. He took great pains and observed the minutiae. To protect himself during such a dangerous scheme, he might execute her.

“The Police Minister is waiting,” said one of the operatives. “You can scratch your foot later.”

“I don’t understand it,” she said, continuing to scratch. “My foot itches abominably.”

“We must hurry,” the operative said, pushing against her shoulder.

“Yes, of course,” she said. She pulled on her sock.

She’d learned another thing about the Police Minister. He was an intensely ardent nationalist. He breathed love of China and the greatness of the present venture. He wished America prostrate before China’s feet.

Slipping her foot into the shoe, Shun Li tied the laces tight. She couldn’t think of another way to stall. It might be bad policy to drag this out much further. The orange toenails had diverted the two operatives. If she took any longer, they might realize her stalling had to do with Marshal Gang’s surprise appearance.

“There,” she said, standing. “That’s much better.”

They turned into the corridor and marched the length to the Police Minister’s ornate door. The senior operative knocked discreetly.

The red light above the door stayed dark. Finally, the intercom buzzed.

“Yes, who is there?” Xiao said.

“It is time for Shun Li’s weekly interview, sir,” the senior operative said.

The red light shined.

“Go in,” the operative told Shun Li.

She did so, closing the door behind her. The Police Minister sat at his desk, and he watched her closely as she approached.

As she sat down, he appeared to hesitate. He opened his mouth as if he were about to ask a question. She dreaded the possibility that he would ask if she’d seen anyone. Fortunately, the mouth closed and he tapped a finger against the desktop. He checked his watch.

“You’re late,” he told her. “I expect promptness.”

“It won’t happen again, sir.”

He continued to stare at her. She found it terrifying. The crocodile had become suspicious. If the Police Minister played for the highest stakes, he could ill afford to take chances.

She realized then that he must suspect that she had seen Gang. But her position in the Chairman’s country estate could prove priceless if Xiao planned assassination.

It felt as if her chest hollowed out. Did Xiao expect her to assassinate the Chairman?

No, no, you’ve become too paranoid. What higher rank could Xiao possibly seek? If the military practiced a coup, they would never leave Xiao as the Police Minster. He must understand that.

Shun Li’s mouth almost opened in surprise. Could Xiao be seeking the highest office of all? Surely, he couldn’t yearn to be Chairman himself. Few people wanted a ruthless secret policeman to become head of state.

“I’ve become curious about the feeding,” Xiao said.

“What?” Shun Li asked, startled out of her thoughts.

The Police Minister refolded his hands on the desk. “You attend your polar bear cub daily. You said the Leader has allowed you to hold the cub’s milk bottle.”

“Yes sir.”

“I want to know the exact times this occurs.”

“Of course,” Shun Li said.

“Oh, and I’m also curious about a little thing. Does the Leader attend the feedings?”

“No sir, not every time.”

“But I expect there is a pattern.”

“I’m not sure.”

“You will write a report, stating the exact times you feed the cub. In the report, you will also record the exact words the Leader utters.”

Shun Li nodded.

Xiao put an insincere smile on his face. It was more a drawing back of his lips, stretching them across his teeth but keeping them hidden.

“I have become concerned about the Leader’s mental health,” he said. “These setbacks in the Midwest are disconcerting. We must help the Leader in any way we can. We must ease the terrible burden for him.”

“That would be wise, sir,” Shun Li said.

The insincere smile widened into a crocodilian grin. “You have become fond of the Chairman?”

“Police Minister,” Shun Li said. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for China. This is a…stressful hour for our country.”

“We will defeat the Americans.”

“I have no doubt of that, sir. They struggle against fate, but in the end, Chinese arms will prevail. It pains me, however, to see the Chairman’s unease at these setbacks. I wish there was some way I could aid him.”

“Yes, that is exactly my thinking. You will write the reports and then I think—depending on the outcome of the next few days of battle—you will be able to help China indeed.”

Cryptic crocodile, he is planning a coup. I cannot believe it. It left Shun Li short of breath.

“That will be all for now,” he told her. “Go. Write the reports, and make sure you are prompt next time.”

“Yes sir,” Shun Li said. This was terrible. Now she didn’t know what to do.