mind. He had other worries, other thoughts.
In Alaska and during the California fight, he’d been a captain. They had temporarily upgraded him to major in California, but it hadn’t stuck. Several weeks after the end of the fight, another promotion came: to colonel of the Behemoth Regiment. That promotion had been made permanent.
He had been in Denver for several months now. His main task had been reassembling the Behemoth Regiment and teaching the crews how to fight and defeat the enemy. He had been absorbing the information learned in California and thinking hard about it.
For that task, he was perfect. In Alaska seven years ago, he’d been a high school history teacher. In the Alaskan National Guard, they had called him “the Professor.” The high school students did the same thing. He knew his history. Even better, he knew his military history and military theory.
They say what goes around comes around. Solomon had once written that there was nothing new under the sun, and Stan believed it. He had thought deeply about the Behemoth tanks. He’d also studied the enemy and the American Armed Forces.
The plant manager pointed at the latest tank.
Stan nodded politely.
He’d worked under General Larson before in California. Larson presently commanded the defense in Denver. The general’s talents in Los Angeles had impressed the Joint Chiefs and possibly the President, which is why they’d put Larson in this hot spot. Denver had to hold. The Joint Chiefs meant to stop the great advance here.
To that end, Stan had spent many long evenings discussing the operational and tactical situation with General Larson. The man had listened to Stan, and the general had incorporated some of his ideas, using them to keep the Chinese away from the city.
The reason Stan was nervous and only paying half-attention to the plant manager was that General Tom McGraw was arriving in Denver tomorrow. Many, many years ago, Stan had gone to Officer Candidate School with McGraw. They had hung out together then and found they both had an interest in ancient history.
Big Tom McGraw…the Joint Chiefs, well, President Sims, had promoted the hard-charging soldier several times already these past few months.
This summer, McGraw had saved his troops in surrounded Dallas. He’d broken out of the Chinese lines and reunited with the main American Army. He did it a second time, saving even more men and equipment from the Canadian River Pocket. Because of that, the President had bumped McGraw in authority yet again. No, it was more like President Sims had rocketed the man to prominence. Tom McGraw had taken over Army Group West. The formations in Denver belonged to that Army Group.
Tomorrow, Stan was sure Tom would demand the Behemoths rumble into battle and push the Chinese far away from their approach position to the Greater Denver area. That was bad because the ground right now was far too wet, far too soggy for the three hundred ton tanks. The U.S. Army needed to use the Behemoths properly or they would prove ineffectual. Could he convince Tom to wait until the ground froze hard?
He had his doubts. Hard-charging Tom McGraw didn’t like to listen to anyone—at least the young man he’d known in OCS hadn’t. McGraw was smart and he’d always been arrogant.
How can I convince him to listen to my advice? Stan wondered. If used right, the Behemoths will do wonders. But if used wrongly, they will be so much scrap metal, and that would be a shame.
QUEBEC CITY, CANADA
John Red Cloud couldn’t believe he was finally going to do it.
He was a short Algonquin warrior with flat, leathery features. His scarred hands were thrust into the pockets of his parka. He had black eyes and seldom smiled, and he wore a toque: the French word for a knit woolen hat.
He walked along a crowded sidewalk in the middle of the city, passing big store displays with their skinny manikins wearing the latest fashions. One wore a sequin bikini that shimmered and glittered green. He shook his head at the stupidity of it. Few pedestrians looked up. Most people walked with their shoulders hunched, faces shielded against the cold wind. Old cars drove by, many with their engines knocking and the tires hissing over brown slush, what snow became in a city.
Many years ago, the Canadian Government had put John Red Cloud on their most wanted list. In those days he had been young and fiery, a soldier in the French-Canadian separatist movement. The separatists had wanted to leave Canada—Quebec