William Weber - Warlords

General Brooks and the others grew quiet as they contemplated John’s plan. “But what about the defensive perimeters?”

“I don’t see how we can hold them,” John replied, not bothering to mince his words. “They’re far too exposed. You heard those men being slaughtered. Our best bet is to pull them back.”

Brooks still wasn’t convinced. “But that would mean risking enemy infantry getting a foothold in Oneida.”

John bobbed his head before the two men locked eyes. “That’s exactly what we’ve been trying to avoid, I know, but you saw how easily one Chinese armored brigade was able to penetrate our lines. What’ll happen when ten times that number show up? Our only chance of fending off the next one is to lure them in and turn our town into a meat grinder. Otherwise, we won’t stand a chance.”

Once the meeting was done, John oversaw the relocation of anti-air assets to protect the artillery on Owens Ridge. Although most of the infantry would be pulled back within Oneida’s immediate boundary, mines and explosives were planted along each of the major roadways into town. An enemy paranoid about IEDs strung along the side of the highway was an enemy who wasn’t looking for targets in the distance.

Captain Bishop and others would be in charge of organizing the troops into dozens, if not hundreds, of tank-killing teams. They would operate independently and with little direction other than to protect the soldiers firing the AT-4s. One of the big drawbacks of the American shoulder-fired anti-tank weapon was the blowback. Like the Javelin, when the rocket was fired, anyone standing directly behind the one pulling the trigger would be in for a world of hurt. It was possible to do, but a safer solution was to set up in an alleys between buildings or amongst the debris in the streets. The key to John’s strategy was to let the armor pass, thus exposing the less protected areas.

The dip in immediate hostilities had also meant that a number of the non-combatants had moved to the high-school gymnasium in order to help load magazines and strengthen defensive points.

John was making local inspections when he heard a familiar voice.

“So what can I do to help?”

John glanced up from the list he was holding and saw Jerry, the man they’d found at the Home Depot in Oak Ridge.

“That depends on whether you have any military training,” John replied.

Jerry shook his head. He was pudgy and looked like he hadn’t picked up a dumbbell, let alone a rifle, in years. “I’m a man of science,” he replied, smiling. “We must be good for something.”

“Someone with your skill set will be an asset to Oneida,” John offered, “once we make it out of this mess.”

“If we make it out,” Jerry amended.

“I’ve always been a hardcore pragmatist,” John told him. “But it’s only really been in the last few weeks that I’ve come to understand how powerful hope is.”

The side of Jerry’s mouth dipped as he nodded. “You might be right. When you break it down into itty-bitty parts, hope is the cornerstone of every major religion.”

John laughed. “Leave it to a scientist to take the cold and calculated view.”

“You may be a recovering pragmatist, John, but I’m still a full-on realist and I’m not so sure we have any chance of winning this.”

“Are you talking about the war or defending the town?”

“Take your pick.” Jerry stopped and watched John as he went back to the list in his hands. “Are you still considering that crazy plan of yours?” Jerry asked.

For a moment, John wasn’t sure which crazy plan Jerry was referring to. “You mean getting our hands on an outdated nuke from Oak Ridge?”

Jerry nodded. “That’s the one. You know, I’m starting to think it might not be such a bad idea after all.”

“I didn’t think you approved of suicide missions, Jerry.”

“I don’t,” he replied. “But after what happened today, the realist in me is starting to reconsider.”

“Anything from our forward observers?” John asked both Henry and Rodriguez as he tightened the straps on his body armor and then swung his tactical vest on.

Even though they had pulled all their troops back to Oneida, they still had a thin skirt of observers watching the approaches.

Rodriguez looked up from the radio equipment. “Reports of Chinese armor gathering south along Highway 27 again.”

“Is that it?”

Henry nodded. “No movement in the other sectors yet.”

They’d nearly gotten through earlier. John wondered whether the Chinese plan called for a repeat of their previous attack.

Both radios came alive at once with busts of static and frantic voices.

“Choppers coming in from the west,” one of the spotters said.

Then Reese’s voice from atop the cell tower. “Overmountain, please be advised, I count six Z-10 attack helicopters inbound. Looks like they’re heading for the ridge.”

“They’re trying to take out the artillery,” John roared. He grabbed his AR and a handful of extra magazines and tore out the front door.

As soon as he was outside, the sound of the approaching helicopters grew from a low hum to a growl. Soon enough they came into view, a series of black dots about a thousand feet in the air. And with that sight came the realization that Reese had been wrong. There weren’t six of them. There were ten.

No sooner had they gone from dime-sized to silver dollar-sized objects on the horizon than a flurry of Stinger missiles streaked into the air from rooftops all over town. Contrails streamed up toward their targets at supersonic speeds. One by one, plumes of fire and smoke exploded in mid-air, each followed a second later by the boom from a violent shockwave. Five flaming Chinese gunships spiralled to the ground and exploded.

At about that time, the .50 cal Ma Deuces opened up from a series of strong points around Oneida, as well as the half-dozen technicals they’d hastily built to mount the heavy machine guns.

There was a distinct rhythm to the Ma Deuce when she fired. She didn’t spit rounds out in quick succession like an M4 or an M249. But what she lacked in rate of fire, she more than made up for with brute force.

Tracers filled the early evening sky, reaching out like neon fingers flicking aside targets one by one. Two of the five surviving gunships managed to evade the hail of bullets and swing around to retreat. But by then, the Stinger teams had reloaded. Three missiles rose up from white plumes, chasing the fleeing choppers.

“Come on, you son of a gun,” John shouted.

The reply came in the form of two explosions followed by the distant sound of cheering from every corner of the town.

Over the echoes of jubilant celebration came another sound, this one far more ominous. Chinese fighter jets were fast approaching. The town’s Stinger missiles didn’t have the range to threaten them, which meant the Chinese could drop bombs on them all day and night and there was nothing the Americans could do but hunker down and wait for the slaughter to end.

A thunderous blast erupted along the crest of Owens Ridge followed by a giant fireball. The fighters were going for the artillery positioned on the mountain that the choppers had failed to take out. And that tingling feeling on the back of John’s neck told him things were about to get a whole lot worse.

The bombing lasted another hour. By then the reports coming in had gone from bad to outright depressing. All of the 155mm howitzers atop the ridge had either been destroyed or otherwise put out of action. That meant they only had a handful of artillery left, most of it concentrated and camouflaged near the high school.