Jake and Goose agreed, the Lieutenant of the Eleventh CDM Battalion was insane. They were down to one hundred and fifty-three effectives and one lieutenant, and half of the men were shell-shocked, with the thousand-yard stare. They badly needed rest.
It didn’t matter to the Lieutenant or to High Command. They needed everyone on the line in order to stem the enemy attack, while the Lieutenant wanted to show President Sims the loyalty of a true American. He meant to stop the Chinese, by himself if he had too.
A few times the past few days, Militiamen had gone crazy, screaming or crying, just wanting the terrible, grinding battle to end. The Lieutenant’s answer had been the same every time: beat them. Fists, rifle-butts, the steel toe of a boot, beat the craziness out of each man and bring him back to normality. The Lieutenant said the men needed the shock to wake them up: that the beating was mercy, not cruelty. The worst part to Jake about the treatment was that it worked. It left the former screamer or crier with black eyes and bruises, but he often became sane again, with the madness exorcised from his heart.
The Lieutenant and his last NCOs—former guards of the Detention Center—were all muscle-bound steroid-users. They were strong to a man and the steroids must have warped their judgment toward hyper-aggression.
Yesterday, the Lieutenant had a flash of inspiration. The Battle of Greater Denver had turned really evil, almost two weeks of constant city fighting. The Chinese used artillery. They used bombers, heavy drones, anything that could bring destruction from above onto the men on the ground. Two Chinese Armies battled their way in with continuing and frightening success.
Flame-throwing light-tanks, armored bulldozers, IFVs, heavy machine gun-pouring Gunhawks, armored infantry and the Eagle commandos seized more of the city every day. The enemy brought tremendous firepower, horrendous bombs, shells, bullets and liquid fire to the fray. It was murderous war, and like rats, the Americans in the rubble and in the ferroconcrete buildings that simply refused to collapse fired their assault rifles and heavy machine guns back. Jake and his fellow Militiamen blasted back with Javelin missiles and used mortar rounds to rain shrapnel on every Chinese advance.
The Lieutenant’s inspiration was to make a blockhouse the enemy couldn’t pass and couldn’t storm. It had to be out of the direct line of fire of heavy vehicles and hard to reach by drone or artillery. The Lieutenant said it would be a death zone and used to slaughter the F-ing Chinese.
The Tenth and Fifteenth PAA Armies fought their way into Greater Denver with meat-grinder tactics, and it was working. But—
“Here,” the Lieutenant said. “Here we stop their advance cold.”
One hundred and fifty-two Militiamen stared at him with incomprehension. Clearly, the Lieutenant was crazy and needed a beating to drive him back to sanity. The trouble was none of them—including Jake—was tough enough to do it.
The chosen blockhouse was of ferroconcrete construction, of course. It was three stories tall and had old ornate merlons on top like an ancient castle. It stood on the corner of two cross-streets. Larger, taller buildings to the east blocked Chinese line of sight. Earlier bomb raids had filled most of the streets with rubble. Even better, inside the building was a big opening into the sewage system underground.
The U.S. Army 17th Infantry Division held their right flank. The 22nd Infantry Division was to the left. Like everyone else here, both divisions had taken heavy losses, but the surviving soldiers still had some fight left.
“We’re going to anchor the entire line right here,” the Lieutenant said. “This blockhouse is going to be the grave marker for ten thousand Chinese. This I swear.”
It meant backbreaking work for Jake, for everybody of the Eleventh CDMB. They circled the ferroconcrete blockhouse with razor wire. They used picks and power drills, planting hundreds of mines farther out. They would make it a deathtrap for the enemy. Afterward, they went to work inside. Jake swung a pick until his back muscles quivered. They made holes in every floor and on the sides as firing loops.
“If the Chinese break through onto one floor,” the Lieutenant told them, “we’ll drive them back out from the others. We’re not leaving this place until we kill ten thousand Chinese.”
Days of endless fighting before this, dying and retreating, had done something to the men. They were sick of losing, of going backward. They didn’t want to die, but they didn’t want to lose either. The Chinese had sealed the back door with ballistic missiles. I-70 was effectively gone for them. Air transports brought ammo and food, but never enough. Greater Denver was a freaking grave—theirs. Now the Lieutenant with his fevered eyes gave them hope to do it to the Chinese, to fight back, augmented with bitter hatred.
Jake grumbled that night to Goose. “I don’t get it.”
Goose sat against a wall, staring off into space.
“Do you hear me?” Jake asked.
“You don’t get it,” Goose mumbled. “Yeah. I heard.”
“Has the Lieutenant ever treated me fairly?” Jake asked.
Goose slowly shook his head.
“So how come the man’s insanity has me fired up?”
Goose turned and looked at him. The man’s face had gotten thinner, and there were black marks under his eyes.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “The Lieutenant’s right. It’s time to make a stand and stop the Chinese.”
“We’re going to die tomorrow,” Goose whispered. “This isn’t smart. Shooting and scooting is the way to do it. We’re alive because we pulled out at the right moment every time before this.”
“It’s also giving the enemy our city,” Jake said.
“They’re going to get it anyway.”
Jake stood up. There were others whispering in the gloom. Jake wondered if he was going to have to beat Goose back into awareness. He’d seen the Lieutenant do it. It worked. That was the important thing to remember.
“I’m okay,” Goose said. “I’m just really tired.”
There were choruses of agreement in the dark about being tired.
“All right, let’s turn in,” the Lieutenant said in his loud voice. “Enough talk. We’ve worked hard. Tomorrow we’re going to fight even harder. So get some sleep while you can. The sentries will wake you in time if the Chinese try something fancy.”
Jake lay down. He shut his eyes and morning came all too soon. His back muscles ached from all the picking yesterday and he was cold.
There were rumbles outside, enemy artillery doing their thing. To warm them up and complete the blockhouse, the Lieutenant put them to work. At 10:17 A.M., the Chinese showed up and that was the end of the drudgery.
Jake was working on the third floor, shoveling concrete chips and dust: the blockhouse was filled with drifting clouds of dust. A shrill whistle brought him around. He looked up. Militiamen ran to their posts. Jake dropped his shovel and dashed to his weapons. He had an M-16 and a single-shot RPG. Despite his sweat, he shrugged on his jacket. Goose and Private Larry Barnes hurried to him. They each carried similar weapons.
The artillery-spawned rumbles grew. The Chinese had aimed their heavy guns at them, or near here. Big shells landed, shaking the ground and producing terrific explosions. Bits of dust and tiny pieces of loose concrete rained on them, forcing Jake to put on his helmet.
The fighting started ten minutes later.
“Steady,” the Lieutenant told the first team. The Lieutenant was a steroid freak, a little over six feet tall with massive shoulders and chest. He had a bull neck and a much-too wide of a face. He wore an armor vest, helmet and kept a heavy .50 caliber pistol ready. It was a hand-cannon, a real piece of work. Jake had seen him blow down enemy soldiers with it. Every time the Lieutenant shot, his arm remained rock-steady.