in the pocket still hung on. The few American prisoners were grimy to a man. Every one of them had filthy, worn clothes and gaunt, staring faces. How the remaining soldiers found the energy to keep fighting, Liang didn’t understand. He had finally prevented the American airdrops to them. His fighters and particularly the MC ABMs had made it too costly for the Americans to attempt any more dropping of supplies to the trapped soldiers.
That interdiction had been achieved seven days ago now. The remaining enemy in Denver was like a pack of rats living in the rubble and ruins. He didn’t really care about them now. The cost to take the metropolitan area had been staggering in numbers and time. He had squandered a full month—five and a half weeks actually. Worse, at Hong’s orders, he’d fed an inordinate number of troops into the urban furnace to achieve the victory. And for what: that pathetically small manufacturing plant?
Now, he withdrew vital units from Denver and the surrounding towns. He pulled tanks and hovercraft from Army Group B, which had reached Cheyenne and taken it. Yes, they had taken the city in time for the Americans to attack.
Where have the Americans gotten all these extra soldiers?
He knew part of the answer. It was so galling. Chairman Hong had fallen for a sly European trick.
“The Germans betrayed us,” Liang said.
“That is true,” Ping said. “Yet strategically, I can understand their thinking.”
Liang’s left eye twitched again. Ping could speak calmly. It wasn’t his head on the chopping block. Chairman Hong hadn’t berated him for allowing the catastrophe to occur.
As if I was the one who ordered Army Group A into Denver. But even that misses the point.
“We miscalculated concerning the American reserves,” Liang said. He shook his head. “We needed to crush the Americans at the very beginning. We made them bleed, but we needed to kill their Army. It survived long enough to regroup because of the treacherous mud.”
Ping looked up. He appeared stupefied with the last statement, with his enlarged eyes staring through thick and distorting lenses.
Liang managed a brief smile. Didn’t Ping see? Didn’t the Chief of Staff understand? Am I the only one who knows what this enemy offensive means? It’s the end of our grand adventure. We miscalculated, thinking the Americans a weak and beaten people. That was the real mistake.
“The Brazilians are regrouping,” Ping said. “They’re gathering their best armor divisions for a counterattack. Soon, together with us, they will nip these American penetrations and crush their formations. Afterward, we will resume the offensive.”
“You can say this after the destruction of our two armored divisions?”
“They were a stopgap measure,” Ping said. “We did not yet realize the magnitude of the enemy offensive. Now that we know, we will take the necessary steps to crush them.”
Liang looked away. His Chief of Staff spoke for the recordings now. Had it gone this far then? Where their heads already on the chopping block?
Liang focused on the map. Army Group A was embroiled in Denver and Army Group B engaged in and around Cheyenne. The savage fighting in Denver had whittled down too many divisions, bleeding them white. In Cheyenne and the surrounding territory, the problem was quite different. The Americans facing them pressed forward, keeping up the pressure. Any rearward movement in mass might collapse the entire front. That would bring about a disaster during the middle of a grim American winter.
“Zhen’s Tank Army—” Ping said.
“Yes, we must use the Tank Army,” Liang said, interrupting his Chief of Staff. He would have to withdraw Zhen’s forces from the northern front and rush infantry divisions into their place. He needed to fortify the north front in and around Cheyenne, putting Army Group B on the defensive.
“Here is my quandary,” Liang said. He’d been thinking about the problem for hours already—no, longer, in fact.
The enemy had shattered the South Americans nearest Third Front. Weak Venezuelan corps had fled en masse, a large majority dying on the open snow. The Americans had been merciless. Worse for the Venezuelans, it had been a most disgraceful way to perish.
The loss of those corps had created a large gap in the SAF Front. Field Marshal Sanchez rushed new units there, but the Americans had driven a wide gap between the PAA Third Front and the SAF First Front: it included northeastern Colorado and the bottom, southwestern Nebraska. Through the gap raced an American Tank Army of tremendous hitting power. It swept everything before it, crushing