Inside the Abrams, Stan used his sleeve to wipe his sweaty face. It was cold out there but hot in the tank.
“They’re coming,” said Jose, who crouched over his gun’s controls.
The T-66 multi-turreted tank. It was a World War One dream that had finally come to life: a land battleship. Stan had read up on it before in a U.S. Army paper on possible Chinese design specs. It had three turrets, each with a 175mm smoothbore gun. It fired hyper-velocity, rocket-assisted shells. It was over one hundred tons, making it nearly twice as heavy as an Abrams. Six 30mm auto-cannons and twenty beehive flechette defenders made it sudden death for any infantryman out in the open. Linked with the defense radar, the T-66 could knock down or deflect enemy shells. The main gun tubes could fire Red Arrow anti-air rounds, making it a deadly proposition for attack-craft trying to take it out. It had a magnetically balanced hydraulic-suspension, meaning the gunners could fire with astounding accuracy while moving at top speed.
Stan opened the hatch, climbed out and jumped to the snowy ground. He crawled to the slope, carefully peering over. The sight froze him.
Three of the monster tanks moved fast along the highway. He knew why. Extendable inner wheels allowed it. If needed, the wheels could retract into the tank like an aircraft’s wheels. Then the armored treads would churn.
Cursing softly, Stan dug out his binoculars. He focused on the massive lead tank. Could any of his Abrams knock it out? Probably only at close range. How many of these had the Chinese brought with them to Alaska?
Sweat trickled into his eyes. He wasn’t going to survive this battle. He knew that now. Down below, Stan could see Williams shouting and gesturing at the men waiting in foxholes and in the trench. Dirt covered the snow around each hole and each trench. The enemy must know the major and his men were there despite the amount of Wyvern and Blowdart missiles they’d fired at the various recon flyers.
At a distance, IFVs followed the three T-66 tanks.
Just then, Pastor Bill Harris, sergeant of the twenty Militiamen assigned to the Abrams, plopped down beside Stan. Bill’s men remained on the slopes up here with the tanks and well behind the Major’s trenches and foxholes. Although he was a pastor, Bill Harris was a tough man, a bulldog of a basketball player.
“Can you stop those things?” asked Bill. For the first time in Stan’s life, he heard fear in Bill’s voice.
“Remember the Alamo,” Stan told him.
Bill nodded slowly, with his eyes on the Chinese monsters.
Stan used to read about the Alamo with a grand sense of adventure. As a boy, he’d always wanted to be there with the great American heroes. They had faced the Mexican Army and died almost to a man.
Just like today, only this time the Chinese are killing us.
Stan didn’t want to die. He wanted to get up and run away into the woods. If he did that, all those men who had died up on the hills and who would soon die in the forward trenches….
“Susan,” he whispered, speaking his wife’s name. He wanted someday to hug his wife and kiss her again. “I can’t let the Chinese reach Anchorage. We have to stop them here.”
“Do you mind if I pray?” asked Bill.
“What? Oh. Knock yourself out.”
“Help us, Jesus,” said Bill. “Let all of us be brave today. Amen.”
Stan realized he needed to get inside his tank. He gripped Bill’s shoulder. “Thanks, Pastor. See you…see you up there after this is over.”
“You destroy those tanks,” said Bill. “You destroy them and keep your Abrams intact. I don’t know of anything else that can stop such things.”
“Good luck,” said Stan.
“God bless you, brother.”
Stan nodded. Then he slid backward out of sight of the approaching tanks and shoved up to his hands and knees. It took an effort of will. Then he was up. He stood there. With a curse, he ran for the Abrams, knowing that today he was going to die.
As he climbed onto the tank’s hull, Stan shouted at the open hatch to Jose and Hank, “They’re coming! It’s time to rock and roll.”
Four minutes later, Stan was cold. He was wedged in the hatch, half his body outside and half his body in the tank. He wore durasteel body-armor and an extra-armored tank commander’s helmet. To steady himself, he gripped his .50 caliber machine gun.
The ten M1A2s were in hull-down position behind the slope. That slope was behind and above the major’s foxholes and trenches. From the trenches, desperate Americans fired ATGMs, LAWS rockets, recoilless guns and assault rifles. Everything bounced off the big T-66s. In retaliation, the Chinese monsters murdered exposed soldiers with mass beehive flechette blasts, while the 30mm auto-cannons chugged endlessly.
Stan froze momentarily as the first T-66 reached the trench line. The one hundred-plus ton tank spun on its treads. Blood spurted from the crushed trench. In fear, Americans crawled out of foxholes and the remaining trenches and sprinted like mice. Beehive flechettes blasted from the vehicle’s sides, causing a bloody mist to spray. When the vapors cleared, there were no bodies. Metallic raining sounded as the T-66s peppered each other, but that did nothing to halt the massacre. There was no retreat as such, as Major Williams had planned. There was simply annihilation.
Stan could hardly speak. There was no moisture in his mouth. He clicked his receiver anyway and said in a husky voice, “Everyone concentrate your fire on the lead tank, over.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jose.
The nearest enemy tank was five hundred feet away. The Abram’s 120mm gun roared and a Sabot round sped at the enemy.
Stan watched wide-eyed. The round hit, burning itself partway into the Tai armor, but not making it all the way through. Three enemy turrets began to traverse around, bringing the big guns toward his partly hidden tanks.
“Jose!” shouted Stan.
Several of the Abrams began to fire from hull down. Each Sabot round either burned partway into the enemy armor to no effect or bounced off the incredibly thick Tai composite hull.
From one T-66, three enemy cannons roared. The shells were loud, blurs in the air. Two American tanks exploded. The third shell missed, blowing up a geyser of dirt. Metal from the destroyed tanks hissed past Stan.
“Turtle!” he roared into his receiver. Like a submariner, he dropped through the hatch and clanged it shut behind him.
The tank shook as Jose fired another shell.
Stan pressed his eyes against his scope. Jose’s shell punched through turret-armor and the enemy turret froze in place. Black smoke poured out of a small shell-hole in the turret. They’d done it! They’d hurt a T-66. It was possible. That T-66 still traversed its other two guns. The 175mm cannons recoiled again as each sent a round at two different Abrams tanks.
With a sick groan, Stan used his scope to inspect his company. From Henry Smith’s Abrams, the turret and gun-tube spun in the air like a Frisbee. It landed fifty feet away. Stan swiveled his scope in the other direction. The next Abrams was burning. One T-66 had taken out four Abrams tanks in less than a minute. How were they supposed to defeat such an enemy?
“Focus on the turrets!” Stan yelled into his receiver. “Don’t try to penetrate the central mass. Just knock the three turrets out and they’ll be effectively disabled.”
More Abrams fired Sabot rounds.
Stan stared through his scope. Oily smoke billowed from another enemy turret in the tank already hit. A hatch opened and a Chinese tanker began climbing out. A fiery blast hurled the Chinese tanker into the air. The shells in that turret must have started cooking off.
The T-66’s single remaining cannon fired. It sent a 175mm shell through the dirt, destroying yet another Abrams hiding behind the slope, bringing its total to five kills.