hovertanks and UAVs against the Americans’ growing logistical tail. Each day the rear area lengthened, stretching back to the Platte River Line.
The American Second Tank Army spearheaded the advance toward Colorado Springs. The lead units had already covered an incredible two hundred miles, half the distance there. Behind Second Tank Army followed Ninth Army and then the Canadian First Army. Trucks, oil tankers and haulers crisscrossed back and forth, bringing up badly needed supplies. The fighting had been stiff in places, the use of U.S. munitions prodigious. Despite the around-the-clock effort, the ground haulers weren’t enough. The Army Group used an inordinate number of air transports, bringing fuel to thirsty tanks.
Lately, the Chinese pinprick counterattacks had increased. They sent hovertank companies, sometimes battalions. The objective was simple: destroy supply dumps and transport vehicles. If the enemy could drain away enough gas and munitions, the drive to Colorado Springs would dry up of its own accord without any major combat. That would also strand Army Group Washington out in the open for the Chinese to slice and dice at will.
Paul and Romo were only part of the side guard. Helicopters and AWACS patrolled the lengthening flank. Drones and bombers waited in the air with Hellfire III missiles. The air assets swooped out of the night sky, bringing vengeance against the Chinese raiders. Various LRSU units, together with Marine Recon and other elite soldiers, formed an early warning line thrown out like a net to catch the elusive Chinese.
The enemy hovertanks acted like ancient Scythians or Great Plains Indians. They raided, using their mobility to flee the strong and their cannons to destroy the weak: in this instance, supply vehicles or supply and fuel dumps.
Paul swayed on his snowmobile, half-asleep from endless days and nights of patrolling. His suit’s heater had been malfunctioning lately, shutting off at the oddest times. He needed to see a tech about it, but hadn’t been back to base for some time.
“To your right,” Romo said, the words reverberating in Paul’s helmet. “We’d better stop,” the former assassin added.
Paul took his hand off the throttle, letting the machine slide to a halt. In the darkness, Romo pulled up beside him.
“Eight-eight-two,” Romo said.
Using the grid coordinates on his HUD, Paul looked there. He moved his jaw, giving him extreme magnification with his binocular vision.
“They look like dots,” Paul said.
“We’ve seen these types of dots before,” Romo said. “The very top seems to have a little hump.”
After a moment, Paul grunted agreement. Romo had good eyes.
“They’re Chinese hovertanks,” Romo said.
Paul kept his head still. If he twitched even the slightest bit, he lost visual due to the distance. “Okay. I’m counting seven of them.”
“Seven,” Romo agreed.
Paul yawned. It lost him the visual, but he didn’t care now. He used the helmet radio, reporting in to SOCOM HQ, AG Washington. He spoke to the air controller on duty and quickly discovered that there weren’t any drones available in their region.
“The hovertanks are moving,” Romo said. “It looks like they’re headed in our direction.”
Paul heard a noise then. He looked up, scanning the star-studded sky. “Hey, what’s that?”
Romo glanced up. A second later, he dove off his snowmobile, landing on his chest in the snow. “It’s Chinese—a chopper! Get down. I think they spotted us.”
Paul didn’t dive. Instead, he jumped off the snowmobile and clumped to the sled. Flipping off the top, he grabbed the last Blowdart launcher.
Machine guns opened up from the enemy helo hovering in the night. Clearly, the Chinese also patrolled along the flank, not like guards but like hungry wolves. Romo was right: they’d been spotted.
Were the helos hunting patrollers? It was crazy bad luck to have this enemy machine here now. Why’s the helo so quiet? We should have heard it way before this. Paul knew the Chinese used ultra-quiet helos to hunt guerillas, with some success.
There was little discreet about the Chinese machine gun. Big, brutal bullets tore into Romo’s snowmobile. The assassin had a sixth sense about these things and moved in time, although just barely. Paul heard the bullets’ metallic screeches. It sounded like a giant throwing punches. Something metal struck his helmet, propelling his head forward. It must have been a glancing hit, though, because he was still alive and his helmet lacked a hole.
Snarling, raising the Blowdart launcher, Paul sighted the helo hovering to his left. Its heavy machine gun blazed, raining bullets at him. In a moment he would be dead from them.
Before the fatal gun-swivel brought those bullets hosing