“We can use HEAT rounds on these,” said Stan.
HEAT meant High Explosive Anti-Tank. Those shells hit the enemy skin and exploded, driving a pencil-thin jet of metal into the target at over twenty times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, composite armor over time had proven superior to HEAT shells. A HEAT shell should destroy an IFV, but Stan had his doubts concerning the Marauders. Their HEAT shells would likely bounce off any Chinese main battle tank. For the Marauders and heavier tanks, Stan would use the Sabot rounds.
Jose squinted at the video IFV bouncing over the ground. “They’re fast,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Stan, slapping his chest, “but we’re the National Guard.”
Jose adjusted his scarf. His wife had knitted it for him long ago. He considered it his good luck charm. “We are that,” he said.
“We’re the Alaskan National Guard,” said Stan. “And we have Abrams tanks.”
“They’re the best tanks in the world.”
Stan knew that wasn’t true, but he said, “The very best. This spot, it’s perfect. It will buy our side days.”
“Perfect, huh?”
Sure, as long as White Tiger Commandos don’t flank us. As long as they don’t have something seriously heavy that they brought along with the fleet, and as long as their choppers don’t shred us to bits.
“Yes,” said Stan, “perfect.”
Jose cracked his knuckles. He still had black grease under his fingernails. He always did. “Good. As long as we can win, I’m good.” He frowned. “Look out over there,” he said, pointing far down the highway.
Stan swallowed nervously as he grabbed his binoculars. Those were tracked self-propelled guns—Chinese artillery. The data-net master sergeant had told him earlier they were 200mm and fired rocket-assisted shells. The show was about to begin.
-12-
Alaskan Nightmare
Han protested. “Please, I can do this without injections.”
“We have our orders, Captain.”
“No! Wait,” said Han. He sat in a pit, wearing twitch gloves and a VR helmet. He loathed the idea of anyone using drugs to alter his mind again.
Since the King of Heaven missiles and the Chinese victory in Low Earth Orbit, the Nexus Center had many trained operators with little to do. A war directive from Minister Jian Hong had released half the Space Service’s controllers to help on the Alaskan battlefield. There had been a four hundred percent increase in drones launched by the invasion fleet and an overload on the Navy’s limited number of remote controllers.
A tall tech now swabbed Han’s arm and jabbed a needle into his flesh, injecting him with S-15. It had an almost instantaneous and disorientating effect.
“No,” Han moaned. “Why?”
“You perform your task for the honor of China,” the tech said.
“I love China,” Han said reflexively.
“We know. Now relax. You’re about to switch to a Z4 Recon Drone.”
Han licked his lips. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this anymore, not if they were going to inject him with drugs. It was regular Navy procedure apparently, and the Space Service was complying with their regulations.
“Engage helmet…now,” said a tech.
“Oh,” said Han. Within his helmet appeared a snowy panorama of mountains, pines and marching men. The soldiers were below as if he were a watching eagle. He heard a flight operator from the fleet giving him instructions as a grid map appeared on his helmet’s visor.
“You must investigate grid D-8,” the flight operator said.
“Acknowledged,” said Han, as he twitched his gloves.
Soon, he approached the American position. It blocked the main highway with two guardian hills. Using zoom, he begin pinpointing larger pieces of equipment. Radar-guided artillery would take care of those. Then a warning beep alerted him of an enemy lock-on. A shock made him flinch, and Captain Han shouted in pain.
“You fool,” someone said. The disembodied voice sounded like the shorter technician. “You set the punishment shock too high. Quickly, lower the setting or you’ll render this controller unconscious, too.”
“What’s going on?” asked Han. The warning light flashed again, and another shock ran through him.
“Quickly,” the disembodied voice said. It sounded like the voice was talking to him, to Han. “You must engage your EW pods.”
Han twitched his gloves, remembering his instructions. In Alaska, a Wyvern missile streaked up at his drone. It was then Han saw enemy vehicles hiding under some pines. He twitched, and he launched a decoy. The Wyvern veered from the drone and destroyed the decoy emitter. The shockwave made his drone wobble, which made the view in his helmet wobble.
“Give us zoom!” someone shouted in Han’s ear.
New targeting radar locked-onto Han’s drone. More shocks zapped his body, making him twist in the remote-controlling pit.
“Disengage the shock mechanism!” a disembodied voice shouted. “It’s disorienting him.”
“…done for lock-ons,” said a different tech. “The kill setting is still active, however.”
“Give me a zoom on the American vehicles!” a flight operator shouted in Han’s ear. Vaguely, he recalled the voice belonged to a battlefield operator situated in a command cruiser in the Gulf of Alaska.
Han released more decoys, but a dark streak made it through and hit his Z4 Recon Drone. A second later, a massive punishment shock jolted through him.
It was Captain Han’s initiation into the latest remote-controlling modification. Controllers never reacted to battlefield danger as tankers or jetfighters did who actually rode in the vehicles they fought in. Many professionals felt this made controllers too light-hearted about their vehicle’s destruction. One group of theorists felt that giving remote controllers punishments shocks for lock-ons and greater shocks for vehicle destruction would heighten the controller’s effectiveness. Now he or she would vigorously attempt to remain “alive.” No one had explained this to Han. The professionals felt it was better if the controllers learned this through experience. The painful surprise would help them remember later.
Captain Han groaned as his drone fell from the sky. The S-15 in his blood made the shocks many times more painful. He blacked-out and pitched from his controlling chair, taking him out of the battle in Alaska and out of consciousness in Mukden, China.
Stan shivered inside his tank as it shook from nearby impacts. The enemy bombardment had been going on for some time already. He figured the enemy used missiles, not just heavy artillery shells.
“I’d hate to be outside,” said Jose from his gunner’s seat.
Stan didn’t know how anyone wanted to be a foot soldier, especially when you thought about artillery. A military study he’d read reported that the vast majority of battle-deaths occurred from artillery shells. During the Second World War, artillery had accounted for fifty-eight percent of the casualties. Body-armor helped some against shrapnel. Deep foxholes were better.
“Hey,” said Stan, “listen.”
The others in the Abrams became quiet.
There was a screaming noise from outside—a heavy shell. The sound made Stan shiver. Then a tremendous boom tightened his muscles as the tank shook and swayed back and forth on its shock absorbers. Shrapnel peppered the tank’s skin, sounding like baseball-sized hail.
“What was that?” said Jose, as he checked his screen. It took a lot to make a M1A2 tremble.
“They must have spotted us,” said Stan. “Quick, Hank, we need to move to a new location.”
Hank started the Abrams as Stan got on the radio, telling his other crews the news. It took ten gallons of JP8 jet fuel to start each tank. The M1A2’s gas turbine was a hog, but it was powerful and could drive the tank fast.