said into his microphone.
In the heavily falling snow, the eighteen Behemoth tanks—the ones spread out in a line—began to do exactly that.
GRID NINE-FIVE-EIGHT, COLORADO
First Rank Wang’s eyes were huge and staring in his ski mask. Like a frightened gopher, he had his head outside the hatch of his T-66. Snow fell around him in big flakes, wet and heavy. Through the dampening snow, he heard another sickening clang. It was like a devil beating a beastly gong, like evil thunder. Something unseen exploded mightily. A second later, he witnessed the craziest, most surreal thing. It appeared as a hazy shape first. Then Wang realized what he saw: a turret doing cartwheels before his tank, rolling and rolling. It pin-wheeled back into the falling snow and became hazy again and then it disappeared. A moment later, he heard a great thud on the frozen ground.
Wang had never seen something like that at close range. The Behemoths—the Americans monsters—were living up to their terrible legend.
“Fire!” Wang shouted.
“I don’t have a target,” the gunner shouted up.
“Fire anyway!” Wang roared.
He hated the waiting. There was flash of something to his right. He spied a burn of light through the falling snow. The burning thing hissed overhead. He waited, but there wasn’t a clang to tell him this enemy round had hit.
Was that for us? Have they targeted my T-66?
For the first time during the war, First Rank Wang wanted to flee the battleground.
“First Rank!” the radar specialist shouted. “There are…American Bradleys to our left.”
“Turn the cannons on them!” Wang screamed. “We must hit back. We must—”
Wang heard a shriek of noise. It sounded like death calling. Then a shock of tremendous force struck the tank. Wang’s eyes opened even wider than earlier. He felt the heat first. Then a shock wave and then a sensation like fire blew him out of the turret. He flew into the air, and he had the rare privilege of seeing his tank explode beneath him. Flames belched from the cannons. One tongue of fire flickered wildly. He knew those didn’t come because they shot at someone. No, they were pure flames because of the destruction of his tank and crew inside the compartments.
The Americans are finally fighting back. He had time to think that as he flew through the air. Then he became aware of something wrong with his legs. He looked down and saw that he lacked trousers. They had burned off. He tumbled down and struck the frozen ground hard enough to snap his neck.
The great Chinese invasion of the United States of America ended that moment for First Rank Wang. He had known months of victory and months of advance. Now, he was dead, just another corpse in the falling snow.
THIRD FRONT HQ, COLORADO
Four days after the start of what everyone now realized was an American offensive, Marshal Liang had lost his icy calm, his legendary steadiness. He did not pace, even though he itched to walk up and down in his study. He could control that urge. The giveaway was a tic in his left eye. It twitched from time to time. He could do nothing to stop it, and it shamed him.
He stood with General Ping around a computer map. Outside the closed door, they heard officers arguing in the command center. Ping glanced at him too much lately, but Liang refused to say anything about it. Instead, he concentrated on the map, trying to derive an insight that would allow him to deal with the new situation constructively.
The last few weeks had been frustrating enough. Army Group A controlled ninety percent of the Front Range Urban Corridor. He had toured the shattered Behemoth Manufacturing Plant in Denver. The plant was smaller than he had envisioned, and there was nothing mass-production about it. He hadn’t sent the specific information on that to Chairman Hong yet because he feared the man’s reaction to the news. It was the one piece of good news, however. It meant the Americans owned fewer Behemoths than he had envisioned. The enemy already had too many of those amazing tanks.
As he thought about the Behemoths, Liang’s left eye quivered. He wanted to clamp a hand over it and make the tic stop. He glanced at Ping, but the general didn’t look up. Did Ping know the orb twitched? Is that why he studiously kept his head down?
Enough! I have more to worry about than a twitching eye.
Army Group A controlled ninety percent of Greater Denver, but the remaining Americans