“Chinese infantry!” Bill shouted.
“Where?” asked Stan, alarmed.
Bill unrolled his computer-scroll. “Here,” he said, pointing.
Stan stared at the scroll, and he looked up. The Chinese were on the other side of that hill over there, the hill with the boulders that looked like three giants huddled together. “What are the Chinese doing out here?” he asked.
“There’re some Militiamen outside. They’re exhausted and only half of them have weapons. Their lieutenant said the Chinese have been chasing them for half a day. Stan, they’re terrified of the Chinese.”
“Okay,” said Stan. “We’d better rig a little surprise for them. I still don’t know how those Chinese made it around our lines.”
“There aren’t any lines out there,” said Bill. “According to the lieutenant, it’s a mess.”
“If you’re right, it means these Chinese are on their own. Maybe they got too aggressive. Here’s what we’re going to do….”
Twenty minutes later, using the old buildings for cover, Stan ambushed the Chinese. It turned out there was a platoon of them armed with QBZ-23s and wearing dinylon body-armor. They must have gotten lost and been separated from their battalion. This was simply more friction in action.
The Chinese looked tired, and they came in a bunch toward the buildings. They probably wanted nothing more than a good rest.
Stan ordered anti-personnel canisters. When the bulk of the Chinese platoon was halfway between the hill and the buildings, Stan gave the order.
Hank revved the engine and the tank lumbered out of hiding. So did the other M1A2s. Chinese soldiers hit the ground and began shooting. Jose fired the M256 smoothbore gun and the entire tank shook just as it always did on the firing range. However, this time it rocked Stan more than usual, and the sound of the canister put goosebumps on Stan’s arms. The canister contained hundreds of 9.5mm tungsten balls which spread from the tank’s muzzle like a shotgun blast. The tungsten balls were lethal for two thousand feet, and they mowed down the Chinese, puncturing the body-armor. It was murder as the other tanks opened up.
The lost platoon never had a chance. Then Bill and his Militiamen opened up. The Chinese twisting in the snow—it was an evil sight. Even so, Stan almost hyperventilated as he shouted.
After it was over, he told himself: So this is battle. He was glad they’d won, but he wondered if he’d always feel so dirty killing the enemy.
The company reached their destination several hours later. A regular Army major strengthened a perimeter several miles west of Cooper Landing. He was the highest-ranking officer in the area.
It seemed like a good place to make a stand. The slush-covered highway ran through the middle of their position. Huge granite slopes to the side of the road funneled attackers straight to them. It would have taken drills to drive foxholes into the stone, so the major had been satisfied putting artillery and mortar spotters behind boulder-strongpoints. It looked precarious on the side of the slopes, but Stan wasn’t going to argue with the man.
Snow-laden pines stood at the top of the slopes or hills. National Guardsmen were up there, stiffened by Regular Army from the 4th Airborne Brigade—“Spartans.” Most wore body-armor. Everyone dug foxholes and firing-pits. They were supposed to protect the ATGM-teams.
ATGM, Anti-Tank Guided Missile, fired from portable launchers. These were old TOW2 launchers, which weighed one hundred and eighty-four pounds. Each missile weighed forty pounds, was shape-charged and more effective at long range than short.
Behind the two granite slopes, Militiamen dug foxholes and trenches under the command of Reserve lieutenants and NCOs, Non-Commissioned Officers. Stan thought the position a good one, as the hills and pines helped protect them from attack choppers—unless the helicopters came straight at them. Two miles back were 155mm artillery tubes. There were some mortar-companies closer than that.
Undoubtedly, the major meant to halt the Chinese here and make them expend artillery shells and short-range missiles trying to dig out the Americans.
The major had made Stan’s tanks the core of his reaction team. As support, Stan had a National Guard platoon manning Wyvern SAM launchers. SAM meant Surface to Air Missile. Bill Harris with his twenty Militiamen stayed with the tanks. Most of Bill’s Militia had rearmed themselves with QBZ-23s or they had been issued with grenade-launchers.
At the moment, Stan stood with the major near his data-net, a group of techs with fold-up tables, chairs and laptops. They fed information into the computers as more news kept trickling in.
“We need to ambush whatever heavies they’re going to throw at us,” Major Williams said. Williams wore a parka, with dirt smeared on his face. He had a hawkish nose and aggressively thrust his chin forward as if trying to maintain the image of a classic commanding officer. He studied a computer-scroll and gripped an assault rifle with his other hand. They stood under a pine tree that kept creaking as a cold wind blew between the two granite hills sixty feet ahead of them.
“Is this before or after they saturate us with artillery fire?” asked Stan.
Williams scowled. “I’m not a magician, son. I don’t know how they’ll react exactly. It’s what they’ve been doing, however. Whenever they hit a strongpoint, they rush up artillery and try to smash through. The raining artillery breaks our Militiamen every time and the National Guard troops about half the time. Seems to me the Chinese are eating up their supplies fast, however, supplies they’ll need to take Anchorage.”
“We’re not going to let them get to Anchorage, are we, sir?” asked Stan.
“Do you have any bright ideas on how to stop them?” Williams asked.
Stan looked around, studying the terrain, particularly how the road behind the trenches curved under a slope about a hundred yards to the rear. He’d been questioning soldiers and militiamen wherever he had the chance. This was such a historic opportunity. He’d been speaking into his recorder in the interests of writing battle memoirs someday. The men who had already faced the Chinese had told him some incredible tales, stories that had scared the crap out of him. By their accounts, the Chinese were ten feet tall and never made a mistake. He was glad for that run-in earlier today. Seeing the Chinese die had bolstered his confidence in his tanks.
“Okay, up there,” said Stan, pointing at the slopes behind the defensive position.
“That’s too far behind the strongpoint,” Williams said.
“You’ve said it yourself, sir. You don’t think we’re going to hold this spot forever. We’re trying to bleed them and force them to use up precious supplies. I can understand that, sir. It’s good tactics. But how do we save our survivors once they break? They need covering protection in order to get away.”
“What kind of defeatist talk is that?” shouted Major Williams.
One of the data-net operators looked up. A scowl from Williams and the man quickly turned back to his computer.
“I’m only saying that because I’ve been listening to you, sir,” said Stan.
“Don’t blame me if you want to run.”
“Sir, as you said, the Chinese are mopping up places like this. They use artillery to make us run. Okay. We don’t run this time, but instead make them bleed. It’s only logical that they’ll bring whatever heavy vehicles they’ve brought along with them for the second try. They might attempt an overrun assault to drive us from our position.”
“And how did you come to this glorious conclusion, Captain?”
“I’ve been talking to everyone I can, sir, learning about the enemy and his habits.”
“You’re an intelligence officer, are you?”
“No,” said Stan, “just a soldier.”