Shun Li waited for the marshal’s death sentence. He might be speaking the truth. But handing out arms to the people gave them power. The great Mao Zedong himself said that political power comes out of the barrel of a gun. The marshal’s suggestion was unthinkable in Hong’s Nationalist-Socialist China.
To Shun Li’s vast surprise, Chairman Hong nodded once more.
What happened while I was away? How has the Army done this in three short days?
The rest of the meeting continued in the same vein as Marshal Kiang outlined the next steps in China’s coming defense.
Jake’s head nodded as the IFV carried the squad at full speed toward a village outside Caiyuanzizhen. The lieutenant had told them there was an important pocket of resistance that needed infantry help to dig out. Their battalion had been selected once again. How wonderful.
Jake chewed crappy Chinese gum. He’d run out of his jawbreakers some time ago. After a long yawn, he fought to keep his eyes open. His jaw muscles were sore from trying to chew this tough junk.
The capturing of Harbin more than a week ago had been cause for celebration. The first provincial capital had fallen. Changchun of Jilin Province was next as the army group barreled for Shenyang, Liaoning Province. Three capitals to take Manchuria, the invasion had been going nicely so far.
That had been then. So much could change in nine days. It was July 3 and this IFV compartment was hot.
“How about we open some vents,” Jake said.
“Hey!” Chet shouted, banging on a wall.
Belatedly, air conditioning vents opened and cool air began to flood the packed quarters. The sound of the engine worsened. Something must be wrong with it.
Jake yawned again. Spitting the wad of gum into a piece of paper—a surrender flyer—he crumpled it and shoved it into a pouch.
Things had begun changing after Harbin. Sure, he was a lowly grunt. But he kept his eyes open. It seemed as if the enemy High Command had suddenly gotten smarter, craftier, whatever. The Chinese still poured away troops as if they were water, but the speed of the next Militia Army’s arrival had slowed the American and Russian advance. It also seemed as if the number of guerillas had increased. So far, it meant that many more Chinese dead. Yet how long could American and Russian supplies continue giving the soldiers enough ammo and fuel? Food was easier. You just looted Manchurian stores.
A jar told Jake the IFV went off road.
“Hey!” Chet shouted. “How about giving us a heads-up first?”
The new IFVs lacked vision ports. Neither Jake nor the other liked that. It helped keep out bullets and smaller ordnance, but no one knew what was going on outside.
“Get ready,” the driver said over the comm.
“What’s going on?” Chet shouted.
A monitor flickered, and then it came on. Why hadn’t the driver done that sooner? Jake shook his head, trying to wake up.
Tanks lumbered ahead of them. It would have been nice if Behemoths were here. These were nimble Jeffersons. They roared down a dirt road. Suddenly, they made a sharp right turn and headed into a cornfield. They smashed the tall stalks, no doubt heading for the village.
The IFV slowed down as it followed into the cornfield. Jake had seen miles of the corn as if this place thought it was Iowa. Soon, through the IFV armor, he heard fifty-calibers and 175mms firing. Muffled but still angry Chinese antitank guns barked back.
The IFV halted and the bay door lowered until it thudded onto the soil.
Jake and the others boiled out. Everyone wore body armor. Today, they left their packs inside the IFV, although each of them carried plenty of ammo.
“Let’s go,” Lieutenant Wans shouted. The platoon hurried after the Jeffersons. The soldiers faded off the tank-flattened corn lanes as they walked down rows, the stalks towering over them.
Soon, Jake reached the end of the field. Chet and Grant were near. The tanks fanned out as they approached a nest of brick buildings—the bothersome village.
“Okay,” Wans shouted. “We’re going in once the tanks stop firing. First we have to get closer.”
The 175mms boomed. The shells gouged the buildings, at times causing huge chunks to blow into the air.
“What is this place?” Jake said. In a bent-over crouch, he moved toward the village, if that’s what it really was. Maybe this was another processing plant of some kind.
“Cement,” Chet said. “This is a cement factory. I used to work in one during high school.”
“Great,” Jake said. “No wonder everything looks as if it’s made of concrete.”
The platoon reached mounds of sand, hiding behind them. The lieutenant glanced at his watch.
With assault rifle ready, Jake stroked the trigger. Flutters hit his stomach. They always did before a firefight.
The Chinese in the cement factory fired a barrage of mortars, RPGs and anti-materiel rifles at the tanks. The Jeffersons’ beehives blasted down most enemy shells. The flechettes never quite got everything, though. Penetrators from an antitank gun clanged against a Jefferson. The tanks began to pour oily smoke into the air—a hit!
At that moment, the tank gunners stopped firing their machine guns and cannons.
“It’s our turn,” Chet told Jake in a tight voice. “It’s up to us.”
He’s nervous. I’m nervous. We’re all scared. This is crap.
“Go!” the lieutenant shouted.
Jake and everyone else shouted like lunatics, jumped up and sprinted for the nearest buildings. His body armor clattered and his throat seemed to constrict so the air had a hard time going down.
Jake, Chet, Grant and the rest of the squad threw themselves down between each advance. They hid behind any cover available: collapsed walls, garbage piles, scrap metal and mounds of cement blocks.
The Chinese saw them. They poured fire at what seemed like point blank range.
Then the Jeffersons opened up again. Heavy shells scream at the enemy. Penetrators and antipersonnel rounds blasted against the buildings.
From on the ground, Jake stared at Chet in shock.
“Go!” someone shouted. “Go, go, go!”
Had that been the final Jefferson round? Jake didn’t know. He hoped so. With an inarticulate shout, he climbed to his feet and ran after Chet.
The RPG gunners were in the middle of the complex. Maybe the Chinese thought the Jeffersons would come in and allow them to pound the tanks from a height advantage. Heavy machine gun scored hits, knocking down advancing Americans.
Then Cowboy kicked a door open with his boot. Tiller hurled a mag-grenade into it. The thing exploded with a vicious crump.
The mag-grenade was new, heavier ordnance for urban warfare. It had a bigger-than-usual punch and was shaped like a policeman’s mag flashlight. For these kinds of fights, it was priceless.
The platoon used the shock of the last Jefferson salvo. With rifle butts or boots, they smashed into the buildings. The fighting was vicious and sharp, but the enemy didn’t have a hope now. The Chinese died in wild fusillades. A few stood and lifted their hands as high as they could reach. Chet, Cowboy and others gave them a burst of gunfire, and the enemy went down in heaps.