“This is probably the wrong place to talk about that,” Stan said.
“I know we’re being monitored, Dad. That’s why I’m protesting.”
Stan nodded. His boy looked terrible. He looked used up, but he was standing for his rights. That took moral courage, something usually much more lacking in people than physical courage. Thinking about that made Stan’s heart swell with pride.
“You’re an American, son. I’m proud of you. Real Americans stand up for freedom and fight for what they believe in. We may not have the perfect system, Jake, but it is worth fighting for because the other side is ten times worse.”
“I’m not arguing that.”
“I know you’re not. You watch yourself, son. Don’t attack guards unless it’s a matter of self-defense. I…I might not get to talk to you for a time.”
“Dad…I’m proud of what you’re doing, sir.”
Stan nodded, afraid to speak again lest his voice betray what he was feeling.
“When they let me out of here, I’m going to join up.”
Stan shook his head. “I’m not sure you can with a Detention mark on your record.”
“They’ll let me join a Militia. I’m going to fight then, and when I’m done, I’m going to study how to fix our system.”
“Ten seconds left,” a disembodied voice said.
“Good-bye, Jake. You take care of yourself.”
“You too, Dad. Kick their asses, huh?”
Stan forced a grin. “I plan to.”
“Show these invaders what it means to mess with real Americans.”
Stan nodded. As he did, the screen faded and the thin official reappeared.
“Thanks,” Stan told the man. “Watch over him for me—if you know what I mean?”
The man stared at him, and there was an odd look in his eyes. “Yes sir, Captain Higgins. Good luck to you.”
“Thanks. I’m going to need it,” Stan said, wondering if the tank carriers were ready yet.
In a vast armada of armored power, the one-hundred ton T-66 tri-turreted tanks clanked through the desert sands beside the Salton Sea. Many of the commanders were half out of the main hatches, using binoculars to scan forward.
Before them, light Marauder tanks raced ahead, scouting for a sign of the enemy. To the rear of the 83rd Brigade clanked several UAV-launching vehicles. When the time came, they would give them tactical eyes and provide the armored thrust with airborne Annihilator platforms.
First Lieutenant Sheng commanded A platoon of Seventh Company: three T-66s at the head of the battalion.
Sheng wore a black tanker’s uniform with a skull patch. He also wore black gloves and had a pair of powered goggles over his eyes. He’d waited a year for this chance to show the Americans what he could do to their paltry armor. They had nothing to compare to the T-66. He had studied the Alaskan Campaign of seven years ago. The frozen terrain up there had worked against the T-66. These desert sands would give Chinese armor its full scope.
First Lieutenant Sheng beamed with pride just thinking about it. His T-66 had two hundred centimeters of Tai composite armor in front. It also possessed three turrets. Each could traverse 180 degrees and each had a huge, 175mm smoothbore gun. They fired hypervelocity rocket-assisted shells against enemy tanks, and HEAT shells for lesser targets. Six 30mm auto-cannons and twenty beehive flechette defenders made the tank sudden death for any infantryman out in the open. Linked with the defense radar net, the massed T-66s could knock down or deflect most enemy shells. The main gun tubes could also fire Red Arrow anti-air rounds, making it a deadly proposition for attack-craft trying to take it on. The tank had a magnetically balanced hydraulic suspension, so Sheng’s gunners could fire with astounding accuracy while moving at top speed.
Sheng dearly hoped the Americans were foolish enough to engage his tanks. It would mean kills on the battlefield. That might win him a medal, and the medal would definitely help him gain a marriage permit before he reached thirty. Sheng had worked hard to gain this position of honor. The colonel considered him the best first lieutenant in the battalion, the reason why he led the assault.
Sheng lifted his goggles and glanced back. The brigade’s tanks churned a mighty cloud of dust. It rose and billowed, some of it drifting onto the sea to the brigade’s right. There, the falling, raining particles speckled the water, creating ripples.
Incredibly, the Salton Sea was a manmade lake. In his spare hours, Sheng had studied the databases on it. In 1900, the Americans had built irrigation canals, diverting water from the Colorado River and into the Salton Sink, an ancient dry lakebed. American farmers had benefited from this until 1902, when floodwaters from the Colorado River overran a set of headgates for the Alamo Canal. The flood breached the Imperial Valley dike, among other damage. In the course of two years, two newly created rivers carried the entire volume of the Colorado into the Salton Sink. Only the completion of the Hoover Dam in 1935 had ended the periodic flooding of this area.
The Salton Sea was 69 meters below sea level and averaged 24 km by 56 km. It was California’s largest lake and saltier than the ocean, although not as salty as the Great Salt Lake in Utah.
Taking out a rag, First Lieutenant Sheng wiped his mouth. The T-66s were headed for Palm Springs and then LA beyond. Afterward, Sheng hoped to be the first to race onto the Grapevine and over the pass to Bakersfield. They were going to overrun California. That’s what the colonel had told them. They were going to meet up with Navy personnel in Sacramento, crushing any Americans foolish enough to engage the greatest tanks and the greatest army in the world.
Sheng grinned thinking about it, and then he checked a computer. The gauge showed they were in the red, meaning they were almost empty of diesel. He would need more fuel soon. They had been traveling fast for many hours. If the T-66 had a problem, it was a hog-like thirst for fuel. How long until the fuel carriers pulled up?
Dropping down into the interior, Sheng moved to the radio, deciding it was time to find out.
In the late afternoon, Sergeant McGee shut down his Abrams M1A3 Main Battle Tank. He had half a tank of fuel left and wanted to conserve what he had.
In training, the instructors had hammered home the need to conserve fuel. After 2032, with the loss of the Arctic Ocean oil fields and the diminishment of Prudhoe Bay, finding enough oil and gas had become a problem. Extracting oil from shale had provided some of the answer. It proved harder to do on a commercial scale than expected. Synthetic oil from coal produced the rest. Despite this, the American Army seldom had enough fuel and thus everyone conserved wherever he could.
McGee was seven miles outside of Palm Springs, an advance unit of American armor. He was in a swing battalion of the U.S. Tenth Division, the second-to-last reserve formation in LA. The plan was simple enough, as McGee knew about it. Bradley Fighting Vehicles with advanced TOW missiles would engage the Chinese at range, four thousand meters or more. Self-propelled artillery would then hammer the enemy with direct fire of guided projectiles. Old Apache helicopters with advanced Hellfire III missiles would then pop up and try to destroy advancing T-66s, before falling back.
At that point, in the hoped-for confusion, Sergeant McGee and others would turn on their Abrams and attack the enemy flanks. The goal was to get in amongst enemy supply and headquarters vehicles and blow them to Hell. The key vehicles command wanted destroyed were the enemy fuel carriers. They had to stop the Chinese advance to Palm Springs, giving LA time for Central Californian reinforcements.
As he stood in the hatch, Sergeant McGee swallowed uneasily. The rumors coming down were all bad. The Chinese had encircled the fortifications on the border, trapping the bulk of Army Group SoCal. On the coast and a little inland, the enemy was driving up the interstates to LA. But the big right hook that would take out Southern California was coming through the desert past the Salton Sea.