Invasion: Alaska ia-1, page 31
part #1 of Invasion America Series
Stan knew the key to the coming fight were the APFSDS rounds: Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding Sabot. After being shot out of the 120mm smoothbore gun, the skin of the Sabot round dropped away during flight. That gave greater velocity to the remaining spent uranium “bullet.” To increase penetrating power, the bullet was actually a long, thin rod. Unfortunately, long thin rods tended to tumble in flight instead of going straight. It was the reason for the fins, to stabilize the spent uranium rod. That hardened rod slammed against the enemy at hyper-velocity, boring through the armor. Whatever made it into the enemy compartment was usually enough to kill the crew or cook off any shells lying around, and those killed the crew. The Abrams only had ten such Sabot shells in each of the ten tanks.
“You’ll have to hit the T-66s in the sides then,” the major said.
“If we try to maneuver around them here, that will expose us, sir, which isn’t a good idea. What the enemy can see, he can kill.”
“You have tanks!”
“The T-66 is more than one hundred tons, sir. It—”
“I don’t give a rip about its specs, Captain. I just want it dead. Use your little tank trick to smash it and however many friends it brings along.”
“How many tri-turreted tanks did the pilot see?” Stan asked, trying to keep his composure.
Ignoring the question, Major Williams slid off the two tables, swaying as sweat trickled down his face. “We have to hold this place, Captain. We have to buy our side time. Do you understand?”
“Maybe we should pull back,” said Stan. “We’ve made them bleed here. That’s how the Israelis soundly defeated the Syrians back in 1973. During the Yom Kippur War, the Israeli tankers retreated from one hill to another, blowing away the charging Syrian tanks. Now we need to—”
Williams staggered to Stan, grabbing one of his arms. The major blew his foul breath into Stan’s face. “We can’t run forever, soldier. Sometimes you have to stand and die to win. Have you ever heard of the Alamo?”
“I’m a history teacher, sir.”
“This is our Alamo. Here’s where we make the Chinese bleed. If they want our country, they’re going to have to buy it over our dead bodies.”
Stan shook his head. “Old General Patton said the way to win a war was to make the enemy S.O.B. die for his country.”
Williams shoved Stan. “Go. I don’t think we have much time. And soldier?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, son. You’re going to need it.”
* * *
The second assault on their position was worse than the first. The Chinese had time to prepare and they poured material on the exposed areas. Rocket-assisted artillery shells screamed down, sweeping the hilltops and slopes. Low-level bombers swept through the Wyvern and Blowdart barrage to release napalm. As the napalm fires crackled, Marauder light-tank drones appeared out of billowing clouds of smoke laid down by the Chinese artillery.
Enough Americans were alive, however. They had crouched deep in their foxholes. Now a few popped up and painted the drones with laser-targeters. Seconds later, tank-killing mortar rounds rained on the drones.
The Chinese were ready for that. With radar and patrolling drone recon flyers, they pinpointed the mortar-teams’ positions and fired huge tubes from mobile guns. 200mm anti-personnel rounds whooshed over the guarding hills, plunging on the hidden mortar-teams. One-by-one the teams fell silent. Then IFVs roared out of the smoke and charged the short distance to the slopes. They clanked past burning drones and reached the edge of the granite hills. Bay doors opened on each IFV and Chinese dinylon-armored infantry poured out. They clawed and climbed the steep granite mountainside.
The last Americans on the hilltops rose up, hurling grenades, firing recoilless rockets and spraying the enemy with assault-rifle fire. They fought with bitter tenacity, and their position was a strong one, their pitted body-armor giving these soldiers another few minutes of life. At last, as the Chinese crawled near the top, the Americans couldn’t fire directly on the enemy. Each side lobbed grenades at the other.
Then attack choppers roared in. Like mechanical insects, they hung over the Americans and ripped with massed 25mm chainguns. As the chainguns fell silent, grim-faced Chinese infantry crawled the final distance to the top of the hills. They’d taken the twin positions, but at a bitter cost.
Now the Chinese battlefield commander unleashed what he considered his secret weapons. Three big T-66 multi-turreted tanks moved on Highway One. No doubt, the Chinese commander meant to finish the fight fast and reduce his losses. Maybe he was a mind reader, maybe he’d gotten an inkling of the American commander’s thinking. Either way, he was right. Major Williams was about to play his last card of this Kenai Peninsula Alamo.
* * *
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.
That made Stan sick. “Listen!” he shouted. “Fire at the enemy turrets! Aim at the turrets and we might win this battle!”
Then Stan saw a running man. It was Pastor Bill. He ran down the slope as if he was driving to the hoop for a winning basket.
“What are you doing?” whispered Stan.
The pastor heaved a sticky round. Wired to it was a cluster of grenades. The pastor dove into a foxhole and the sticky round stuck to the T-66’s tracks. The cluster exploded, knocking off a tread and halting the deadly tank. An anti-personnel machine gun opened up, sending rounds in the pastor’s direction.
At that moment, the remaining Abrams fired, and the Sabot rounds bored into the crippled T-66’s single operational turret. The great Chinese tank shuddered.
“Retreat!” shouted Stan. “It’s time to leave.” Another T-66 tank was headed in their direction. The third continued to slaughter Americans in their foxholes.
Stan’s company needed no more urging. Five Abrams tanks backed up fast, racing for the next slope and so they could get to the road. Four other Abrams remained where they were, burning. The fifth Abrams was among the stalled tanks, but it didn’t burn.
“Go, go, go,” Stan said. He was shaking. Was Bill still alive? What had that crazy-man been thinking? Stan opened the hatch and popped his head outside into the cold air.
The second tri-turreted tank clanked over the top of the slope as it gave chase. One of its guns roared, and another Abrams exploded, leaving the company with four tanks.
Stan cursed feebly and then shouted down the hatch, “Jose!”
“I see it,” said Jose, who adjusted the Abrams’s gun.
The tri-turreted monster traversed two cannons at them as it clanked past burning Abrams tanks, those that never had a chance to leave the slope.
“It has us,” said Stan. He felt sick inside as the giant cannons aimed at his tank. There was no way his armor could stop the 175mm shells. This was murder.
The monster T-66 passed burning Abrams tanks littered behind the slope. One of those five M1A2s wasn’t burning, however, although it had been disabled. Now, as the giant Chinese tank clanked past it, the fifth Abrams’ turret adjusted slightly. Someone in the disabled tank was still alive! Before the T-66 could alter its path, the 120mm cannon fired at point blank range. The Sabot round drilled into the mighty Chinese tank. The T-66 stopped, and it exploded, turrets popping off.
“A miracle,” whispered Stan. “That was a miracle.”
“What now?” asked Hank.
Stan couldn’t speak, for the hatch to the fifth Abrams opened. Flames licked up as a man tried to climb out. Then he blew upward as the insides of his tank cooked off.
“Did you see that?” Stan whispered.
“I saw,” said Jose.
“He saved our lives,” said Stan.
“He let us get away.”
Stan felt numb inside. That was heroism. Bill charging the T-66s alone and the Abrams gunner just now—Stan made a fist. He struck the turret. “Let’s get out of here before the last T-66 shows up.”
He’d seen what those things could do. One T-66 was more than a match for five Abrams tanks.
“We had ten Abrams and now we have four,” Stan said. “They slaughtered us.”
“It isn’t over yet,” said Jose. “You’d better get us out of here,” Jose told Hank.
“Roger that,” said Stan. “It’s time to run away so we can live to fight another day.”
-13-
War in the Ice
ARCTIC OCEAN
Paul Kavanagh was tired, cold and sore. The sound of his skis was a constant noise, interspaced with a moaning wind that bit into his bones. Despite everything, he stared up at the polar darkness in awe. An eerie display of colors lit the heavens. It was the Northern Lights, otherwise known by the more scientific name Aurora Borealis. Red and green patterns of light seemingly formed motionless waves of beauty before the stars.
Red Cloud glanced back at him, his features hidden under a ski mask. Maybe he noticed Paul’s fixation, for the Algonquin looked up. Resting on his ski poles, Red Cloud waited for Paul to catch up with him. Then the Algonquin began to cross-country ski beside Paul.
“Sunspots make the lights,” Red Cloud said.
“How?” asked Paul, who hadn’t spoken for days.
Red Cloud glanced at him again. The Algonquin had spoken to him several times a ski-period, even though Paul had never acknowledged him or his words. It was almost as if Red Cloud had been worried about his state of mind. Now Paul wondered if the Indian had felt lonely, if this Arctic desert adversely affected the Algonquin as it did him.
Did he fear I would give up and he’d be trapped alone in this icy wasteland?
“Protons and electrons are shot from the Sun in massive bursts during a solar storm,” Red Cloud said. “The protons and electrons strike the Earth’s atmosphere, and the planet’s magnetic field drives them to the poles. There they act like the charged particles in a fluorescent tube.”
“What kind of Indian are you?” asked Paul. He’d been expecting some ancient Algonquin myth, the way TV Indians always answered nature-related questions.
Red Cloud pointed at the heavenly display. “Green is the most common color. It is caused by atomic oxygen. Red is caused by molecular oxygen and nitrogen.”
“Were you a scientist?” asked Paul.
“…no. I love science fiction. Asimov taught me it was fine to desire to know the reason behind a thing, but Jack Vance has always been my favorite SF author.”
