Invasion: Alaska

by Vaughn Heppner

“China? There lies a sleeping giant. Let her sleep, for when she wakes, she will shake the world.”

-- Napoleon Bonaparte

Copyright © 2011 by the author

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Timeline to War

1997: The British return Hong Kong to the People’s Republic of China.

2011: China reviews its one-child per family policy begun in 1978 and decides to continue it. This increasingly creates an imbalance of boys as families abort a higher percentage of girls.

2012: China carries much of the U.S. National Debt and continues to sell America a vast surplus of finished goods.

2015: Decreasing European and Russian population trends continue. Birthrates have plummeted well below replacement values, resulting in a shrinking number of Frenchmen, Germans, Finns and Russians.

2016: The American banking system and stock market crashes as the Chinese unload their U.S. Bonds. The ripple effect creates the Sovereign Debt Depression throughout the world.

2017: Siberia secedes from a bankrupt Russia.

2018: Scientists detect the beginning of a new glacial period that is similar to the chilly temperatures that occurred during the Black Death in the Middle Ages.

2019: The Marriage Act is passed. As the Chinese men greatly outnumber the women, special government permits are needed before a man is allowed to marry a woman.

2020: Due to new glaciation, there are repeated low yields and crop failures in China and elsewhere. It brings severe political unrest to an economically destabilized world.

2021: An expansion-minded Socialist-Nationalist government emerges in China. It demands that Siberia return the Great Northeastern Area stolen during Tsarist times and a reunification with Taiwan.

2022: The Sovereign Debt Depression, and an ongoing civil war in Mexico, creates political turmoil in America, particularly in the Southwest. There is an increase in terrorism, secessionist movements and a plummeting Federal budget. All American military forces return home to the U.S.

2023: The Mukden Incident sparks the Sino-Siberian War. Chinese armies invade. Ailing Russian government ignores Siberian cries for military aid. America’s new isolationism prevents any overseas interference.

2023: Modernized equipment and an excessive pool of recruits eager to win marriage permits bring swift victory to Chinese arms over Siberia. It annexes the Great Northeastern Area. Siberia becomes a client state.

2024: Aggressive Chinese posturing and long-range aircraft stationed on the coast cause the aging U.S. Fleet to retreat from Taiwan. China invades and captures Taiwan. Its navy now rivals the shrunken USN.

2026: Newly discovered deep oilfields in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska prove among the world’s largest.

2027: The civil war in Mexico worsens. The bulk of America’s Homeland Security Forces now stand guard on the Rio Grande.

2028: The continuing modernization of the oil industry in Siberia, the Great Northeastern Area and in the South China Sea turns Greater China into the largest oil-producing nation in the world. China begins to dictate OPEC policies.

2030: The cooling trend worsens, bringing record winter temperatures. New energy sources cannot keep pace with increasing demand. American energy hunger sweeps away the last environmental concerns. All possible energy sources are exploited.

2031: Harsher weather patterns and growing world population causes greater food rationing in more countries. The main grain exporting nations—Canada, America, Argentina and Australia—form a union along similar lines as OPEC. China warns it may cut America off from all oil supplies unless it is given priority status for grain shipments.

2032: China experiences the worst rice harvest of the Twenty-first century. New rationing laws are instituted. Internal unrest rises to dangerous levels as Party officials seek new food sources.

-1-

Upheaval

PRCN PAO FENG

I do not belong in this submarine, Commando First Rank Ru thought to himself. He sat on a metal bench inside the nuclear attack submarine Pao Feng. It was the quietest boat in the Chinese Fleet, and it was less than sixty kilometers from coastal Los Angeles.

Three other Bai Hu Tezhongbing, White Tiger Commandos, sat on the benches beside Ru. They were stern-faced UDT combat divers. UDT meant Underwater Demolition Team, and Ru had the unfortunate privilege of being hailed as the best combat diver in Greater China. It was the reason the government had revoked his exemption and returned him to active service.

The deckplates vibrated under his feet as a water droplet condensed on a pipe above. The droplet fell near his flippers, which were stacked against his bundle of CHKR-57 high explosives. Red light bathed the Commandos, and the softest of lurches told Ru that the submarine had begun to rise.

This tightened his stomach. He did not belong here. He had already served his time.

Ru’s eyes narrowed. He was an athletic man with compact muscles and thick wrists. His face was unremarkable, save that it was flatter than average and indicated Vietnamese heritage. That was a taint in the Socialist-Nationalist China of 2032, but he had proven himself in Taiwan and seldom had to worry about such things now.

There was a soft click to his left. Ru and the other three Commandos looked up as a flat computer-scroll flickered with life. The face of the submarine captain filled the scroll. He wore a white officer’s hat, had narrow features and sucked on a cigarette stub. A thin ribbon of smoke curled from the stub and drifted before the captain’s eyes. His had the eerie deadliness of a hammerhead shark. Behind him, a sailor moved to a different station.

“We are approaching the designated area,” the captain said. He had a raspy voice and he was known for his strict discipline. “I wish you men luck.” Nicotine-stained fingertips plucked the cigarette from his mouth as on-scroll he leaned toward them. “First Rank Ru, I am grateful that you came out of retirement to lead the assault. Your patriotism humbles us. You are a true Chinese fighter and I salute you.”

Mashing the cigarette into an unseen ashtray, the captain saluted. A second later, the computer-scroll went blank.

The four Commandos lurched to their feet. As they did, Ru became aware of Soldier Rank Kwan’s stare. Ru glanced at the man, the largest among them and thickly muscled from too much time on the weight machines. Kwan had a mustache and dark skin like a Turk of the outer provinces.

“Your patriotism humbles us all,” Kwan said.

The others nodded or mumbled agreement. Maybe only Ru heard the bite in Kwan’s words. In the red glow of the compartment, their eyes locked, and Ru understood that Kwan knew his secret.

Like the others, Ru wore a wetsuit and a web-belt with a combat knife and a TOZ-2 underwater pistol attached. He now lifted the rebreather that rested against his high explosives and shouldered it onto his back. After securing the rebreather, he attached the high explosives to his chest, settling the CHKR-57 so it wouldn’t restrict his breathing.

“Remember your training,” Ru said. They had been brought together a mere four weeks ago, intensely rehearsing their attack ever since. Ru was surprised he spoke with such confidence. The fact he did so made him glad. Maybe Soldier Rank Kwan understood his secret anger, but it would be better if the other two didn’t realize.

Ru inhaled, tasting the boat’s oil-tainted air. He had forgotten how narrow a submarine’s compartments and passageways could be. He forced himself to grin and to glance at each of the Bai Hu, White Tigers, in turn. Each was younger than him, most by nine years. None was married and none had sisters because there was only one child per family. The one child per family policy was a law, one of Greater China’s most strictly enforced.

“After this,” Ru said, “after we are successful, each of you shall win marriage permits. So I hope each of you has a chosen girl to pursue back home.”

The others stared at him, their features expressionless. These younger men coming out of the training camps were different than those Ru had known when he’d first joined. These men seemed more puritanical, almost like Shaolin monks of the history books.

Soldier Rank Kwan spoke up. “We do this for the honor of China.”

Not wanting to get into an argument over it, Ru began to don his full-face diving mask. It was bigger than an ordinary sport mask. As the name implied, the full-face mask covered his entire face, protecting it from cold water and from possible pollution. Because his lips were free, he could talk inside the mask. Sometimes they used modulated ultrasound comm-units for talking to each other underwater. Today, they would use speaker units, but only for talking above the water. They didn’t want to use the ultrasound and risk having the Americans pick up their voices. Ru appreciated full-face masks because he no longer had to clench a mouthpiece. That made a difference during a long-distance swim.

He fastened several straps around his head. Then he clicked the set/air value, breathing the submarine’s atmosphere. The switch was on the mask but out of the way, so he wouldn’t accidentally bump it during the dive. The rest of the mask was smooth around his face and head. That would keep it from brushing against something underwater and dislodging the mask. A flooded full-face mask was harder to clear of water than an ordinary sport mask.

The mask’s window or faceplate was a modern polymer instead of glass. Because the inside of the faceplate could become fogged during a dive, Ru’s mask had a special design feature. Whenever he breathed, the inflow of air blew over the polymer. That air evaporated any mist on the inner faceplate, giving Ru clear sight.

With his rebreather hooked to the fitted mask, Ru moved past Kwan and the others. He squeezed through the hatch into the airlock chamber. He carried ninety pounds of CHKR-57 explosive. Another White Tiger followed him into the airlock, making it a tight fit. Ru pressed a button, and the chamber rotated, sealing them within.

In seconds, cold saltwater began to gurgle around their ankles. It rose quickly, reaching their thighs, their waist and heading up for their chest. Ru half-turned from his partner. As the water swirled around him, he raised his right hand and touched a plastic pouch secured to the strap crossing his left pectoral. Curled within the pouch was a photograph of his pregnant wife, Lu May. Ru’s fingertips rested on the hidden photograph. Reflexively, his teeth grinded together as the muscles that hinged his jaws tightened.

I should be in my favorite chair in our apartment in Shanghai. I should be listening to my wife sing lullabies to our unborn daughter.

Ru leaned his head against the chamber’s wall. The unfairness of this seethed within him. He had served his time and had risked his life for the State in order to earn the fabulous reward of marriage. Now he was supposed to enjoy marital bliss, not risk his hard-won happiness in order to harm Americans.

Years ago, he had become a White Tiger for a reason, and that reason wasn’t patriotism. It was because of Lu May, the only one for him. Since puberty, Ru had longed for her. He had never used a prostitute as many men did these days. Prostitutes were far too expensive and he found the idea repulsive. The first time he lay with a woman, he’d vowed, it would be Lu May, and he would never lay with another. He believed a woman was meant for one man alone. In trade school during his teens, he had thought it out carefully. At seventeen, he’d volunteered for the Army, passed the rigorous physical and mental tests and gained admittance to the famed White Tigers. They were the elite Special Forces of China and considered the fastest way for a man to earn marriage rights, and one of the few ways for a Chinese man to gain such rights while he was still in his twenties. The only trick was remaining alive throughout the hazardous duty.

Much to his disgust, Ru had still been in training as the war with Siberia started and ended. Fortunately, the war with Taiwan occurred a year and a half later. Ru had gone in with the second-wave UDT-attack into Taipei Harbor. Each White Tiger had carried a limpet mine, so-called because the limpet was a type of mollusk. By activating powerful magnets, each combat diver was to attach his limpet mine to an enemy hull, and then swim to safety. A ticking fuse would blow the mine shortly thereafter. Every member of the first wave had died. Every member of Ru’s team had died too, except for him.

Soldier Rank Kwan’s favorite cousin Mengyao had been Ru’s best friend then. Mengyao had died in Taipei Harbor, and Ru was certain Soldier Rank Kwan blamed him for surviving. Second cousins were rare and therefore cherished in China. Ru’s limpet mine had destroyed the Light Cruiser Quicken. He still had nightmares of that time. Both his eardrums had burst and he still experienced nosebleeds much too easily. The government had publicly hailed his performance. Not only had he gained the Medal of Excellence for the successful assault, but he’d also won a coveted marriage permit, a jiehunzheng. He had been paraded on TV as a Hero of the People.

That had been eight years ago. It had taken three of those years to woo Lu May. A woman in China had many suitors. Many richer men had sought out Lu May, a beauty, a rare and wonderful prize. In the end, she had chosen him, although he was only a First Rank Commando.

In the submarine’s diving chamber, the cold saltwater surrounded Ru. A clang sounded. Reaching up, Ru turned the wheel until he heard a click. He pushed, and the hatch opened into the Pacific Ocean one hundred meters below the surface.

Kicking his fins, Ru swam through the hatch. Even after years of training, this was an eerie experience. The attack submarine was the only visible thing in the darkness. Lights shined on the hull, allowing enough visibility to see the numbers painted below his fins.

First checking to see that his partner followed, Ru headed toward the bow. He kicked smoothly, expertly using his muscles to propel himself through the murky underworld. The trick was to relax, to pretend he was a shark or a barracuda. Soldier Rank Kwan was bigger, stronger and tougher, but none of his men was a better swimmer. It had been the key to Ru’s success.

The submarine’s hull shuddered and a mass of bubbles rose ahead of him. Ru slowed. He was near the bow, near the torpedo tubes. The captain ejected a T-9 SDV or Swimmer Delivery Vehicle. It was torpedo-shaped, made of ceramic-plate so it had a negligible radar signature and ran on Japanese batteries. There was a cage around the propeller so none of them could accidentally cut themselves on it. Hydroplanes would guide the vehicle.

Ru kicked his fins, moving away from the submarine so the yawning darkness of the deep spread out below him. The SDV floated in the murk at neutral buoyancy, with an emitter guiding Ru to it. Soon, he straddled the T-9. What looked like a small motorcycle-screen protected the controls and compass. Through his thighs, he felt the other Bai Hu securing himself to the saddle-seat behind him. Ru switched on power so green lights blinked into life. He checked the panel. A red light appeared, the other T-9 was ready.

Ru fed power to the propeller and adjusted the T-9’s hydroplanes. He moved away from the submarine and toward the Californian coast almost sixty kilometers away. The vehicle’s vibration was slight and water rushed against him, as he was only partially protected by the forward screen.

Ru twisted back. The Commando seated behind him leaned out of the way. Farther behind followed Kwan and his partner on their T-9. Nodding, Ru faced forward as he felt the rush of water against his chest. He peered about the dark world, with millions of tons of water surrounding him. It was nearly silent with his rebreather and full-face mask. He felt terribly alone in the vast Pacific Ocean.

This was possibly the longest distance combat swim in Chinese history. It would have been impossible without rebreathers. They were a marvel of marine technology and were a closed-circuit scuba, almost akin to a space suit’s tanks. As a person breathed, his lungs used-up oxygen and created carbon dioxide as waste gas. With open-circuit scuba or the familiar aqua-lung, a diver only used some of the oxygen in each of his breaths. He breathed out unused oxygen together with nitrogen and carbon dioxide waste, blowing the bubbles of gas into the surrounding water. That meant oxygen escaped that he could have used, and it meant he needed to carry more diving cylinders than otherwise.

The rebreather, on the other hand, re-circulated the exhaled gas for re-use. It did not discharge the unused oxygen, nitrogen and carbon dioxide waste into the water as bubbles. Instead, the rebreather absorbed the carbon dioxide by scrubbing it. If left un-scrubbed, the carbon dioxide would accumulate in the system and cause carbon dioxide poisoning. The rebreather also added oxygen to replace the consumed gas. Because of this, a diver only needed a fraction of the gas he would have used in an open-circuit system. It meant he needed to carry fewer cylinders on his back.

The rewards of using a rebreather were many. Because a diver needed less gas, he could swim longer at one time and go deeper. Except during an ascent, rebreathers produced no bubbles. Bubbles could give away a diver’s position while swimming in enemy territory. Bubbles also created noise, making it harder to listen as closely. The rebreather minimized the amount of inert gases in the mix and therefore minimized the decompression needed later. In other words, the diver didn’t get the bends as easily. There were other rewards. In an open-circuit cylinder, the cold breathable gas became uncomfortable over time and caused dehydration. The rebreather air was warmer and moister. Lastly, as a regular scuba diver inhaled, the expanding gas entering his lungs caused him to rise slightly and then lower as he breathed out. He lost his neutral buoyancy. In a rebreather, this didn’t occur.

Keeping a constant speed on the T-9 and straining to see in the darkness, Ru endured the lonely voyage. He understood the mission’s parameters, but he had little feeling for its importance. The Siberian oilfields under China’s control combined with offshore drilling and domestic production had turned her into the largest oil-producing nation in the world. China had more than enough energy, but with her teeming population, she lacked enough food. Despite her superpower status, stiff rationing was practiced throughout the country. Ru had listened to lectures concerning the return of a small ice age and harsher weather patterns, but he’d usually fallen into a daze during them. Crop yields were down all over the world, although a few southern countries had increased food exports. America was the leader of the new Grain Union of Canada, Argentina, Australia and others, and China demanded preferred status. Her chief bargaining chip was oil, the limited resource that still ran much of the world’s industries and the majority of the transportation systems.

America had grain and China needed more. The Party leaders would do whatever they had to in order to feed China’s hordes. Ru shook his head in disgust. Grain. Oil. What else did he need to know other than the government had lied to him? Men with marriage permits were supposed to be exempt from frontline service. They had told him he was the best frogman and China now desperately needed her favored son to save the nation in this bleak hour.

First checking the instruments, Ru brought the T-9 toward the surface. He had been doing so slowly throughout the voyage. Even with rebreathers, their bodies needed time to adjust to the nitrogen levels in their bloodstreams. If they rose too quickly, the nitrogen would expand in their blood, giving them the bends.

Finally, Ru’s masked head broke the surface and then his body as the T-9 moved through the ocean like a fast-floating log. He switched the set/air valve and breathed the cold atmosphere around him. With a flick of his fingers, he shut down the caged propeller so they glided to a halt.

The torpedo-shaped vehicle soon rode a mighty swell. The mass of water hissed around him, while the stars glittered above in amazing profusion. After a week underwater in the submarine, the stars were a glorious sight. In Shanghai, Lu May and he liked to walk in the park at night gazing at the constellations.

A pang squeezed Ru’s chest. He had the terrible feeling that he would never see his wife again. His wife would remarry. A Chinese woman had no choice about that. If his unborn daughter wasn’t aborted first, she would gain a stepfather and she would never know he’d existed.

Ru tried to control his anguish. He was the best frogman in China. He would survive and he would return to Shanghai. In several weeks, he would hold Lu May and shower her face with kisses.

Ru shifted in his saddle-seat as Soldier Rank Kwan slowly drove his T-9 near.

A big ocean swell passed underneath him and Ru’s T-9 sank into a watery trough. Another swell barreled toward him, with tiny phosphorescent plankton glowing like ghosts in the water. It was so peaceful here, almost surreal. Yet he had come to attach explosives to an oil platform.

The Americans had sonar and radar on their oil platforms. Secessionist terrorists had attempted sabotage on various oilrigs in the past. Security details now accompanied the deep-sea workmen. It was the reason the attack submarine had released the White Tigers so far from target. It was why they used ceramic-plate T-9s, and it was the reason they would swim the rest of the way. No one must ever realize that Chinese soldiers had attacked Americans.

By hand, Ru signaled Kwan. They hadn’t attached any communication wires to each other yet, nor did Ru use his mask’s speaker. He liked the silence and the four of them knew what to do.

Shutting down his T-9, Ru set the timer to the directional emitter. If they were to survive the combat swim, they would have to return and find the T-9s. He switched the set/air valve, tasting the rebreather’s warm mixture again, and slid into the water.

The four of them shoved and dragged the vehicles beside each other, using clamps and lines to attach them. When they were finished, the others gathered around Ru.

Kwan held up his hand. Ru frowned. Kwan pointed north. Ru heard a motorboat then. At this distance, he didn’t know how big the boat was or who it belonged to. They watched, seeing lights. The motorboat headed west. Had someone spotted the submarine? That was bad, but there was nothing they could do about it now.

Ru pulled out his compass. The others knew what it meant. They must continue with the operation. Ru submerged and reentered the dark waters, a human seal in the womb of the endless sea. After riding for so long, it felt good to use his thighs. Ru kicked in a steady rhythm, propelling himself to the target. Every time he glanced back, he saw the other White Tigers following, their faceplates aimed at him. He glanced several times into Kwan’s hard eyes. That tightened the muscles in Kwan’s face.

The White Tiger Commandos were unique to the Socialist-Nationalist government ruling China. That government had risen to power in 2021 under the present Chairman. The White Tigers had been the first to implement the new enlisted rankings. They had dispensed with the old order of private, corporal and sergeant. Instead, it went Fighter Rank, Soldier Rank and First Rank. After several years, the Chinese Army, Navy and National Militia had incorporated the new enlisted rankings. In everything military, the Bai Hu led the way.

Many kilometers later, Ru’s head and shoulders broke out of the water. Like sea otters, the others soon surfaced around him. Ru pointed. There in the distance was the giant oil platform, with its bright lights shining in the night. The Americans had built it several years ago. According to the briefing, it had taken a special act of Congress and fierce debates among the environmentalists of the country. The Americans needed oil, and they were breaking long-held taboos to acquire it wherever they could. This new platform was supposed to be the first of many in the Californian coastal region.

Ru took out his binoculars, which could switch to infrared scan. A dark chopper swooped around the platform, and he spotted a patrol boat. The Americans took security seriously. The oil companies used reliable Blacksand mercenaries for the job.

First signaling to the others, Ru submerged once more. It was a long swim. He heard the motor first as a tiny sound. The sound grew as he neared the giant oilrig. According to his briefing, the patrol boats carried armed mercenaries and heavy machine guns. The patrol boats were equipped with APS radar. Normally it was used as a fish-finder, but for a short distance, it could detect swimmers.

Ru headed down into the darkness, down, down, down. Flicking on a heel-light, Ru looked back. Other heel-lights appeared, three of them. With a nod, Ru resumed his dive. The temperature became steadily colder. Even after years of training, this was an uneasy experience, the knowledge that hired killers patrolled above, seeking to find and destroy him.

Ru and the others carried high explosives, and they each had a TOZ-2 underwater pistol. It was similar in design to the SPP-1 pistol developed in the old USSR. Ordinary-shaped bullets were inaccurate underwater and extremely short-ranged. Therefore, their pistols fired a round-based 4.5mm steel dart 115mm long. Each dart weighted 12.8 grams, and each dart had a longer range and greater penetrating power than a speargun’s spear.

The TOZ-2 had four barrels, each holding one cartridge. None of the barrels was rifled. Each dart was kept in line by hydrodynamic effects. It meant that the TOZ-2 was inaccurate when fired out of the water. Ru had practiced with the pistol. All of them had. The deeper one dove, the less range their pistols had. The effective range out of water was fifty to sixty-six feet. In water twenty feet deep, a steel dart could kill at one hundred and thirty feet. In water fifty-six feet deep, the steel dart’s range shrank to sixteen feet.

By using his compass and rangefinder, Ru unerringly reached the oilrig. He switched on a lamp and used the light to scan the darkness. A wahoo darted before him, a scombrid fish like mackerel or tuna. Fish densities around an oil or gas platform were twenty to fifty times higher than the open water. It told Ru he was near. Then a great stanchion appeared. Although the oilrig was new, the stanchion was already encrusted with sea-growth.

Using a depth-gauge, Ru adjusted his range and used his combat knife to scrap and pry away marine-growth from the metal stanchion. Each time the blade touched, he heard a click and a scraping sound. Once he had a big enough area, Ru slipped the CHKR-57 from his chest and secured it to the stanchion. Once finished, he set the timer.

They did this four times, the others securing their explosives to different stanchions.

Ru grinned. Even Kwan managed a soft smile. Then they swam away, keeping at this deep level but heading for the rendezvous point. It was easier swimming without the explosives. Now Ru merely had to find the T-9s and then the submarine. Afterward, he would be on his way home to Shanghai and Lu May.

The sound of the American patrol boat dwindled. When all he could hear was the sound of his breathing, Ru slowly surfaced. He used his compass and rangefinder, and in time, he turned on the directional device. He waited, watching. There, a pulse from the T-9’s emitter showed on his tiny screen. With joy in his heart, Ru swam near the surface all the way there.

Soon, the four Commandos unclamped the T-9s, climbed onto the saddle-seats and started up the propellers. The T-9s sped into the Pacific Ocean for the rendezvous point with the Pao Feng.

This time they remained on the surface, riding over the swells. The kilometers dropped away as Ru followed the compass toward the chosen heading. He was going to see Lu May again. He would see his baby girl being born and watch her grow into a fine young woman. Surely after this, the military could not ask more from him.

Lost in his thoughts, Ru was surprised as his partner dug a knuckle in his back. It took a moment as Ru turned on the speaking unit attached to his mask.

“Wei?” he shouted over his shoulder.

The man pointed left. Soldier Rank Kwan drove his T-9 beside them, water splashing up from the nosecone.

“Where’s the buoy signal?” shouted Kwan.

Ru checked his rangefinder. His eyebrows shot up. How could he have missed this? He checked the receiver set to the buoy’s signal. The captain of the submarine was supposed to have launched a buoy twenty minutes ago to guide them back. Ru double-checked the receiver. There was no light, no signal, no nothing.

“We should be over it!” Kwan shouted through his speaker.

“Cut your drive,” said Ru.

Soon, the T-9s floated together. It was still dark, the stars shining brightly overhead. It was two fourteen a.m., Pacific Time. Ru checked battery power. It was low, with maybe another thirty minutes left of drive power. The excellent Japanese batteries had been the major limiting factor of their range. Despite years of low funding and neglect, the American Navy was still dangerous, one would think especially so in their territorial waters. There must be no hint of Chinese involvement to their terrorist act, the key reason why the Pao Feng had tried to remain well out of American sight.

“How long do we wait here?” a Commando asked.

“An hour and eighteen minutes,” Kwan said. “Then we must head deeper into the ocean.”

“What happened?” Ru’s partner asked.

“The patrol boat we saw earlier,” said Kwan. “The captain has strict orders not to let anyone detect the submarine. He might have left.”

Ru understood the logic to Kwan’s answer. They had all been instructed on the importance of remaining hidden. If they failed to make pick-up, they were supposed to sink the T-9s and divest themselves of every article of Chinese manufacture. That meant the TOZ-2 underwater pistols, knives, rebreathers, everything that could link them to the White Tigers. Then each Commando was supposed to swim west into deeper waters, drowning rather than accepting possible rescue from the Americans. A White Tiger Commando gave his life to China as his final act of obedience and love for his country.

Not caring for such logic, Ru repeatedly flicked the switch to the receiver. He tapped the console with his finger. “You will work, damn you,” he declared.

After shutting off the T-9s, they sat there for an hour and eighteen minutes, no one talking, all of them dreading the possibility that Kwan was right.

After the time has passed, Kwan shouted through his full-face mask’s speaker, “We are White Tigers!”

Ru looked up in desperation.

“For the greater glory of China,” said Kwan, “we must take the T-9s and drive until the batteries die. Then we will sink them and drop our tanks, belts and—”

“Bu!” shouted Ru, using his speaker.

“We serve China!” shouted Kwan. “We are White Tigers, the greatest soldiers of history!”

The fervency of Kwan’s words shocked Ru. The drill instructors of the training camps and the propagandists had done their jobs too well. China seethed with a vast population of men that was seldom softened or civilized by the presence of women. Among those teeming numbers, the White Tigers had found a fertile field for their heady notions of martial glory and devotion to country. Soldier Rank Kwan had supped deeply on those ideals as had many warriors of the past: Gurkhas, Samurais, Ninjas, Janissaries, Napoleonic Old Guards, Roman Legionaries and Spartans.

Soldier Rank Kwan drew his TOZ-2. Seeing that, Ru threw himself away from Kwan and into the sea. The pistol barked. A steel dart whizzed over Ru and slapped the water.

As he floated, Ru drew his TOZ-2 and steadied his arm over the saddle-seat of his T-9. His partner on the back seat made muffled shouts within his mask. Ru glanced up. The Commando reached over and ripped the underwater pistol out of Ru’s grasp, tossing it into the sea.

In a great Pacific Ocean swell, Ru saw Kwan rise up as the Soldier Rank balanced on his T-9. The White Tiger took aim. Then the other Commando on Kwan’s T-9 jostled the Soldier Rank’s elbow as Kwan attempted another shot. The TOZ-2 plopped into the sea.

With a roar of frustration and desperation and while kicking his fins, Ru surged upward. He grasped his partner by the straps of his wetsuit. As Ru sank back into the sea, and as the swell barreled toward them, he pulled the Commando. Within his mask, the White Tiger shouted in surprise. Ru dragged his partner off the T-9, which rolled now with the power of the swell. Releasing his partner, who drifted farther away, Ru frantically fought for a purchase on the T-9. With a growl of noise within his mask, Ru heaved himself onto the vehicle.

Kwan and his partner were arguing on their T-9.

“Lu May,” whispered Ru, his chest hurting with the thought of never seeing his wife again. He pressed the starter button. With a lurch, he drove the T-9 away from Kwan and away from his own partner floating in the sea, watching him. Ru crouched low as he headed back toward the American oilrig. One way or another he would survive. He would find a way to either slip into China or slip Lu May out. They would be together again, a family.

A white plume splashed near. Ru twisted around. Kwan gave chase, plowing down a swell and into the trough after him. Little flares of flame emitted from a pistol. Kwan must have taken his partner’s gun and then shoved the Commando off his T-9. Despite the pistol’s inaccuracy above water, two steel darts struck Ru’s vehicle. The darts shattered the tough ceramic-plate, and one of them must have hit something vital. Ru’s vehicle lost power.

Ru swiveled around as his T-9 slowed. Staring through the full-face mask, Kwan looked stern and resolved. He brought his T-9 closer. Then Kwan pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He’d already shot his last dart.

Kwan holstered his pistol, clutched the controls and aimed his T-9 at Ru’s wallowing vehicle. Ru slid off on the other side, entering the water and submerging as Kwan hit. Above Ru’s head and with a cracking sound, his T-9 skidded away. A bulky object showed where Soldier Rank Kwan fell in.

Ru judged distances between them. They were too far. Kwan was already drawing his pistol to reload. Ru jackknifed and kicked down toward the depths. He propelled himself through the nearly silent sea, and he glanced back. Near the surface, Kwan shoved a fresh clip into the pistol. With fierce resolve, Ru kicked harder. He needed more depth in order to shorten the underwater pistol’s range. Looking again, Ru saw that Kwan came after him.

Something flashed past him into the depths. Ru assumed it was a steel dart. What else could it be? Two more went past. Then fiery pain burned in Ru’s thigh. He felt there with his hand, and plucked out a dart.

He’s fired four!

Ru reversed direction, kicking upward toward the silvery surface. Kwan was a blot of darkness.

He must be reloading.

Ru drew his combat knife and kicked his fins, straining to reach the White Tiger Commando. As Ru neared, a thrill of fear surged through him. Kwan snapped the underwater pistol shut. Then Kwan aligned it—Ru came out of the depths like a shark. His razor-sharp knife sliced the hand as the trigger-finger pulled. The retort was a sharp noise underwater. The steel dart hissed past Ru’s head. Then the TOZ-2 floated in a swirl of blood. It was no use trying to slash with the knife. Only thrusts were useful underwater. Ru let go of the knife, beat Kwan to the neutral buoyancy pistol and kicked out of the Commando’s grasp. In a moment, Ru aimed the pistol at Kwan.

Three sharp retorts sent three steel darts puncturing into Kwan. Pain creased the White Tiger’s face. Then Kwan relaxed as blood oozed from his floating, twitching corpse.

In moments, Ru surfaced. He’d hurt his arm, probably when Kwan had struck his T-9. He swam to Kwan’s wallowing craft, climbed aboard and continued heading east for the oilrig. He didn’t know what had happened to the others. At this point, he didn’t care.

Later, the T-9 stopped running. It was out of battery power. Ru slid into the water for the last time. He used his compass and rangefinder, and he began the journey back to the platform. He was under a severe time constraint. He needed to return and take the Americans down to the stanchions in order to remove the CHKR-57 before the high explosives destroyed the platform. Surely, the oil people would reward him for saving their precious product and saving their American environment. Americans were frightened of spilling oil into the sea. He had heard more than his share of American jokes on the subject.

His injured arm began to throb, but it was mere pain. By enduring, he would return home to Lu May and his unborn baby. Well, he could never go home again, but there would be a way to secret her out of the country. Greater China was huge and filled with teeming millions.

A beep alerted him. Ru stopped and shook his head. He didn’t need the locator now. The large oil platform glittered in the darkness. He checked his watch, but it had stopped working.

Ru wrinkled his brow. Would it be better to bypass the oilrig and attempt swimming all the way to the American coast? No, he was too tired. Despite his training, he had swum too far tonight to try a marathon journey to Los Angeles. So he headed for the oilrig.

Three quarters of the way there, he heard a motorboat. Ru stopped and waved his good arm. The dark blot of a boat threw up whitish-colored waves in the moonlight. They had already spotted him, or someone had. That was the reason why the Commandos had come in deep before, crawling as it were to the oilrig.

In time, as outboard engines gurgled and as a large barn-sized object thumped slowly toward him, mercenaries with automatic weapons shouted orders. Ru shouted through his speaker in Chinese, understanding their anger but not knowing their barbaric language. As they looked down at him, the mercenaries jabbered among themselves before two threw down a scaling net. Ru needed help, and with it, he soon flopped onto the boat’s deck.

A heavy man with good boots shoved him onto his back. Another used a knife and cut away the full-face mask. The heavy man placed a heel on Ru’s chest. The mercenary poked him with the barrel-tip of an automatic weapon. The man spoke more gibberish.

“Hong!” said Ru, and he used his good hand, trying to pantomime what would happen. Didn’t anyone here speak Chinese? Ru found their lack amazing.

The mercenaries jabbered again, angrily, as the patrol boat moved faster. It thumped across the seawater, a bumpy ride and loud, too, as they headed for the oilrig. The man with the automatic weapon poked it harder against Ru’s sternum as he repeated his words. Ru heard certain similarities now in the barbaric speech, but still couldn’t understand what they asked.

“Hong!” said Ru, sweeping his arm. “Hong, hong—baozha. Wo hui shuoming nin na zhe tingzhi.” He needed to let them know while there was still time to save the platform. Surely they could understand what he was trying to say.

Several of the Anglo mercenaries traded glances with each other. Two of them stared at the nearing platform.

“Baozha,” said Ru.

With a steel-toed boot, the heavy man with the automatic weapon kicked him in the head. The next thing Ru knew, the patrol boat motored toward a large elevator in the oil platform. The thing was like a Shanghai skyscraper in its towering monstrosity. It throbbed with life, big wheels and gears moving. To Ru it seemed like a hungry dragon, waiting to devour him. How could these Americans be so stupid? He was trying to save them.

“Baozha,” Ru said weakly.

That started the mercenaries arguing again. To Ru, they were pointing fingers everywhere. He wanted to sleep, but if he did that, he’d never see Lu May again. Why had the Party leaders who preached about honor broken their word and sent him back onto the frontline? That was wrong. Lu May—

It was then the CHKR-57 detonated. Water geysered upward. Anglo mercenaries howled, bringing up their weapons. Ru lay on the patrol boat’s deck, his head hurting. It looked to him as if the entire oilrig was leaning, as if it was moving and toppling. Then he realized it was.

“Lu May,” he whispered. “I love you, my—”

Ru never finished his words, as his world ended with the destruction of Platform Number Seven. Falling jagged metal pierced his chest. He knew a moment of scalding pain, and then everything went blank as he died. The same metallic shard tore a hole in the patrol boat.

The boat sank as Blacksand mercenaries jumped into the water, shouting and thrashing to get away. They didn’t. Mighty Platform Seven crashed on them, sucking many under as it sank down into the sea. Several years ago, Platform Seven had been heralded as the new, great hope for California Oil and America’s insatiable energy appetite. Now the great hope was gushing crude, blazing fire and spreading death.

-2-

Desperation

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

The mall was a bad idea, Paul Kavanagh told himself. There were too many people around. It was the reason his ex had chosen to come here. It would make her feel safer: the mall cops, the crowds and a place where there was merchandise.

Thinking about that, the clothes for the little man, the washer and dryer she needed and tires for her rundown Ford—Paul nodded. He had to do this. His ex wouldn’t understand. She never had, but the state of the economy meant he had no choice. The Sovereign Debt Depression had supposedly eased several years ago, but tell that to a man whose Marine record ended with a dishonorable discharge. Tell that to someone whom the shrinks said had a difficult time with authority. It wasn’t authority he had trouble with, but assholes.

Paul shoved his hands into his old leather jacket and turned around, scanning the crowds. He was surprised at how many teenagers there were, seeing as it was one-fifteen in the afternoon. Weren’t they supposed to be in school? Was it a holiday now because that oilrig had exploded?

Paul ran a hand through his short brown hair. There was something dangerous in his eyes that made the obvious gang-members look away, at least the intelligent ones and those who thrived by trusting their concrete-sharpened instincts. Paul was a little over six feet, with a linebacker’s shoulders and the trim hips of his college days when he used to slam running backs into the turf. He’d tried out for the pros ten years ago, but had been too light, too small for the steroid-pumped gladiators. Marine Recon had been the next best thing—while it had lasted.

Paul sighed. Cheri was always late. So he didn’t know why he was letting it bother him. She would come, and she’d bring Mikey. She had promised over the phone.

A worried look entered Paul’s eyes. The expression didn’t fit on his tanned features. It seemed wrong, incongruous, an anomaly. What if she didn’t come? Even worse, what if she came but left Mikey home?

Paul sat abruptly on the yellow tiles of the built-up pond near the main mall entrance. His elbow hit his motorcycle helmet, which rested there. The helmet scraped against the tiles as it shot toward the water. Paul barely twisted around in time to catch the helmet, an exhibition of speed and reflexes wasted on the passing crowds. Catching his helmet made him look at the water it had nearly fallen into. Now he saw the pennies, nickels and dimes glittering there.

I could use a little luck.

He stood again, keeping hold of his helmet, and dug in his jeans pocket. There was a quarter. He made his wish and flipped the coin. It plopped into the water and swayed back and forth until it settled onto the cement.

“Paul?”

Kavanagh spun around, surprised at the quick granting of the wish. His face creased into a smile. It changed him, took years off his features and showed a sense of vulnerability that had been missing until now.

Little Mikey held onto his mother’s hand. Mikey was six, wore an oversized SF Giant’s baseball cap and had mischievous blue eyes.

“Daddy!” he shouted, ripping his hand from Cheri’s grasp.

Mikey ran full tilt and launched himself as Paul squatted. He caught his boy, surprised at the kid’s weight and the strength of the leap. It knocked Paul back so he bumped against the tiled pond.

“I knocked you back, Daddy!” Mikey shouted.

Paul grinned, straightening himself and taking off the little man’s cap. He messed up sweaty blond hair as Mikey laughed. The peculiar odor of unwashed boy knifed Paul in the heart. In a wave of love, he clutched his son.

“Squeeze me harder, Daddy.”

Paul squeezed, and he put his nose in Mikey’s hair. What had he ever done to help make a wonder like this? By everything holy, he loved this little man.

“Are you going to move back home, Daddy?” The words were muffled in his jacket, but they were loud in Paul’s heart.

“Not just yet,” Paul heard himself say.

“When?” asked Mikey.

Paul wanted to say, ‘That will depend on your mother.’ But he knew that wasn’t fair. It had been just as much his fault as Cheri’s.

He released Mikey and looked up at his ex-wife. She hugged herself, and for a moment, she looked so sad, almost like a little lost girl. She was beautiful, a small woman with long dark hair and a gymnast’s grace.

Long hair—she must be using extensions again. Those cost an easy three hundred. No wonder she couldn’t stay within her budget.

Maybe she saw the change in him, maybe she sensed it. He’d wished more than once that his tracking instincts were as sharp.

“Hello, Paul,” she said.

Her voice dried the emotions in him. They let him know where he stood with her. He had known. It was just…the hope in Mikey must have transferred into him. Irrationally, he thought about taking the little that was left in his account, changing it into coins and tossing them one after another into the wishing pond. If the quarter had worked, why not throw in more and fix his life?

He stood, and he found himself clutching the bottom rim of his motorcycle helmet. He wished he could roar like a linebacker and charge into the crowd, flailing right and left with his helmet. If he could knock everyone down, he’d get his old life back. Just the chance to try would be good enough. It was knowing he had absolutely no chance of fixing things that was so galling, so hard to stomach.

“I’m here just like I said I’d be,” Cheri told him, with her arms crossed. She wasn’t hugging herself anymore. The crossed arms were a shield.

Her tone of voice made it a struggle. Paul scowled. He looked down and saw the little man staring up at him. The shiny face, the smile, they crumpled so fast it startled Paul. Mikey’s lower lip quivered and tears welled in his eyes.

“Hey,” Paul said. He squatted, set his helmet on the scuffed floor and hugged his boy. The poor fellow bit back his sobs and he started hiccupping.

“I won’t cry, Daddy,” Mikey whispered.

“No, no, you’re a tough guy,” Paul said as he patted Mikey on the back.

The little man shoved his face against his upper chest and began to bawl, the sounds muffled against leather.

“Is this what you wanted?” Cheri asked.

Paul looked up helplessly at his ex-wife.

“No,” she said. “You’re not going to make this my fault.”

Paul stared at the floor as he continued to pat his son on the back. What a lousy world. It wasn’t supposed to work like this. A man grew up, got married, had kids and barbecued on weekends. Maybe he took his kid to a ball game on Sunday. What made it worse was feeling how threadbare Mikey’s shirt was. That shot a bolt of anger into him. Cheri must have chosen this shirt on purpose, to rub his nose in their lack of money.

Don’t lose your temper. Show your son how to act. Leave him something good to remember about you until next time.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Paul gently pried Mikey from his chest. He grinned, and used the end of his sleeve to wipe the little man’s runny nose. “I wanted you to come to the mall so I could tell you goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Mikey asked in a lost voice. “Are you leaving us forever, Daddy?”

“Hey buddy, don’t give me that shit.”

“Don’t swear in front of him,” Cheri said.

A scowl flashed across Paul’s face before he nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, as he looked down at his boy. “Don’t swear, okay?”

“I won’t,” Mikey said.

“And listen to your mother.”

“I will.”

“Did you lose your job again?” Cheri asked, with just the right touch to her voice to make it a deep-cutting question.

Paul looked up slowly, even as he kept squatting beside his son.

“Yeah, it figures,” she said, but not in the same tone as before. These words had more deadness to them.

“I’ll still make the payments,” he said.

Cheri made a soft sound through her nose as she looked away.

“I already have a new job.”

“Is it selling shoes this time?” Cheri asked.

Instead of getting angry, he kept his tone light. “I’m not a salesman, baby. You know that.”

Her head whipped around, and her brown eyes were wide as she stared at him. “Paul,” she said reproachfully.

How did she do that? How could she know he was about to do something dangerous? “Look,” he said. “I didn’t have any choice. No one’s hiring guys like me around here.”

“You’re going to use a gun again, aren’t you?”

“Lighten up,” he said. “Guns are what I know.”

“Didn’t the Marines teach you anything?” she asked. “The military wants brownnosing more than anyone. You said so yourself.”

“Peacetime military does, yeah.”

“Paul, what are you getting yourself into?”

He heard the worry in her voice. It surprised him. He noticed that Mikey had quit sniffling and was watching his mother.

“You said—” she began.

“Wait,” he said, standing. He extracted a rumpled envelope from his back pocket. It was far too skinny and it had almost cleaned out his account. That showed how pathetically small his account was. He held it out to her.

Cheri stared at the envelope and then looked up at him.

“Two thousand,” he said.

“Is it blood money?”

“Come on, Cheri. What do you think I am?”

“You lost your job again. You only had this one a month. What happened? Why couldn’t you keep it this time?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “I’ll send more later. I know it sounds—”

“What have you gotten yourself into?” she asked, as she took the envelope.

He shrugged, making leathery crinkling sounds with his jacket.

“Are you a bodyguard to one of the corporate clones?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’d last real long doing that.”

“You’re not going into collections with the repo companies, are you?”

That was a tough job in the big cities. Cops only went into some areas with tracked vehicles or in armored choppers, and then only in packs.

“What do you think my discharge means?” he asked. “Around here I can’t do anything that involves guns.”

“Then I don’t get it. How can you be giving me two thousand?” Her eyes widened again. “Unless you’re selling drugs. I hope you’re not selling drugs.” She hesitated, gripping the envelope, obviously thinking about handing it back, but dearly needing the money.

Paul sighed. She’d never understood his stint with the Marines and had positively hated Marine Recon. The funny thing was it had been their best time together, especially with the crazy action in Quebec when his battalion and a few others had been on loan to the Canadian Government. It had been the best because he’d been gone and they’d written emails and texted. She’d been pregnant then, too, and that might have helped.

“You’ve been watching the news about the oilrig?” he asked.

“The one that exploded?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s screwing up the coast,” she said, “killing seals and otters.”

“Well, it didn’t just explode,” he said.

“Terrorists?” she asked.

“People are saying there are three candidates. Al-Qaeda, Iran or the Aztlan separatists.”

“Aztlan? You mean the Aztec people?”

“Yeah, them,” he said. Aztlan separatists were still big in L.A. Too many places here had huge graffiti signs showing their support. However, since the civil war in Mexico had ended, the big Mexican separatist movement in the southwestern U.S. had died down. Fortunately for California, it had never gotten as bad here as it had with the French-speaking separatists in Canada. That had been full-blown combat, the start of civil war in their northern neighbor.

“The Aztecs blew up the oilrig?” Cheri asked.

“No one’s claiming responsibility. They’re just one of the suspects. The thing is, most commentators doubt they would have caused such environmental damage to their own coast. Whoever it was must have used some pretty sophisticated equipment.”

“What does any of this have to do with you?” Cheri asked.

“Security,” he said.

“You better not be thinking of doing something crazy.”

Paul shook Mikey’s shoulder and pointed at a candy wagon about thirty feet away. As he dug out his wallet and took out a five, he said, “Why don’t you ask that old lady by the wagon to get you some gummy bears?”

“Yeah!” said Mikey, speaking the word with the same inflection Paul would have used. Mikey snatched the five and ran to the candy wagon.

Paul kept his eye on Mikey as he spoke to Cheri. “Blacksand runs security for most of the Western oil companies. The blogs say they lost some people in the explosion.”

“You can’t work for Blacksand,” Cheri said. “I remember when you wanted to work for them before. Blacksand demands a clean record.”

“Right, normally a dishonorable would stop them from hiring a real soldier. But there are two reasons why they’re willing to take me on a provisional basis now.”

“What are they?”

Paul still watched his son. Mikey was explaining it to the old lady with a dress that went all the way to the floor. His boy pointed back at him. The old woman looked over. She was wearing dark sunglasses. Was she blind? Paul waved. The old woman smiled and waved back. Then she bent down to Mikey, spoke to him, accepted the five-dollar bill and examined the candy wagon.

“With this latest terrorist act,” Paul said, “working security on an oilrig has turned into hazardous duty. That means more than a few people who would normally do it are getting jittery. That’s good, though, because Blacksand just raised their rates. The oil companies want beefed security on all their rigs. They don’t want this happening again.”

“There must be tons of people eager for security work,” Cheri said, “especially if it pays well.”

“So why hire an ace like me?” Paul asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“You know that isn’t what I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“Paul, I don’t want you to die.”

“…me neither,” he said after a moment.

“What’s the second reason?” Cheri asked. “The real reason Blacksand is willing to overlook your discharge?”

“That’s the funny thing, the kicker. They want a snow-weather veteran.”

“Why’s that funny?”

“I guess it isn’t really,” he said.

“You fought in the Canadian Shield, in that rocky winter-land,” she said.

The Canadian Shield was a huge geological region that curved around Hudson Bay like a giant horseshoe. Few people lived in the region, as it was unsuitable for agriculture. The Shield was dotted with lakes, famous resorts, vast forests and gold, copper, iron, nickel and uranium mines.

“It was northern Quebec where it was as cold as Hell,” he said.

“Hell is hot. You fought in blizzards and snowstorms. Where do people have oilrigs in places like that? I thought most oil derricks were found in deserts.”

Paul hesitated to tell her.

“Is it going to be cold where you’re going?” she asked.

“I’m flying to the Arctic Circle,” he said.

The energy crunch meant the oil companies were hunting for crude wherever they could find it. The new bonanza was the Arctic Circle and Antarctica.

“Do you mean Alaska?” Cheri asked.

“I wish I did. No. The Arctic Circle…the rig is in the Arctic Ocean.”

“Isn’t it icy up there all the time?”

“Yeah,” he said. He remembered reading somewhere that the ice used to melt in summer, or a lot of it did. That must have been before it had gotten cold again. A new glacial period, they called it. He remembered watching a history show about the Black Death in the Middle Ages. There had been harsher weather back then, too. It had hurt the crops and vineyards just as it did these days. The whole thing went in cycles, apparently. Now it was their turn, and according to what he’d looked up, it made the Arctic almost as cold as space.

“You mean the oil well is frozen in the ocean ice?” Cheri asked.

“I’m going to the closest rig to the North Pole,” he said. “I’ll be knocking on Santa Claus’s door.”

“Is it dangerous?”

It had to be dangerous if they were willing to hire him. Near the North Pole—did the wind howl all night long? It was supposed to be dark half of the year.

“I can’t see how,” he said.

“So why do they need you then?”

“It’s all about insurance. If you look at things deeply enough it always goes back to the money.” Had that been true about them? Once the government had kicked him out of the Marines, he’d had one job after another, and they’d steadily been crappier jobs each time. The money had started drying up and so had their marriage.

Cheri glanced at the envelope in her hand. Looking thoughtful, she slid her purse off a shoulder, clicked it open and buried the two thousand in it. “Does Blacksand pay well?”

“You know it.”

As she slid the loops back onto her shoulder, she looked up into his eyes. “Take care of yourself up there, and try to keep this one, okay? We need the money.”

He forced himself to nod. “Are you and Mikey doing okay?”

“I’m almost finished with Beauty College. I’m already cutting hair on the side.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

Her lips firmed. “We agreed you weren’t supposed to ask that.”

A stab of heat burned in his chest. She’d laid that down as a condition for him seeing Mikey. The courts had screwed him, giving her full custody. He supposed none of that mattered now that he was headed for the Arctic Circle.

“I’ll call you when I get there,” he said.

“Mikey will like that.”

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

She cocked her head, and her lips parted. “Try to get along more at work, okay? You’re too much of a loner.”

He hated when she said that. “I’ll tell him goodbye.”

“Don’t leave mad,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“Okay,” she said, her face tightening, “if that’s the way you want it, I’m fine with that.”

He took a deep breath and counted to three. “I’m not mad. I’m glad you came.”

Cheri studied his face. He waited for a smile to break out as it used to in the beginning. Instead, she said, “Goodbye, Paul.”

The way she said it—he paused. There was something final in her words, something almost fated. He picked up his helmet, managed to give her a nod and turned toward the candy wagon. Mikey was racing back with a bag of gummy bears clutched in his fist. His son was laughing. He liked that.

“Run harder, little man!” shouted Paul.

Mikey put his head down and he ran full out. The tennis shoes slapped the floor as he approached. Paul dropped his helmet, grabbed Mikey under the armpits and threw him into the air above his head. Mikey squealed with delight. Cheri had never liked him doing that, but who knew when he’d see his boy again. Paul caught Mikey and hugged him tightly.

“I love you, big guy.”

“Me too,” Mikey said, breathlessly.

Paul set him down and knelt on one knee. “You take care of your mother, okay?”

“I will.”

“I’ll visit you in a few months when I have some time off.”

“Promise?” Mikey asked with something close to desperation.

“Of course I promise,” Paul said.

“And call, Daddy.”

“I will,” Paul said, standing up.

“Wait, Daddy!” Mikey said. He opened his striped bag of gummy bears. “You have to eat one of these with me first.”

Paul recognized the delaying tactic, and for a moment, there was a stab of pain in his heart. If he were a better person, things might have worked between Cheri and him.

“Thanks,” Paul said, smiling at his son as he took an orange gummy bear.

“Eat it, Daddy.”

Paul did, hardly tasting a thing.

“Take some with you for the road,” Mikey said.

“You be a good boy,” Paul whispered.

Mikey nodded.

The striped bag crinkled as Paul dug out some more gummy bears. Then he turned away, heading out. He couldn’t take any more of this.

“Bye, Daddy!” Mikey shouted.

Paul turned back one last time, lifting his motorcycle helmet, waving goodbye. He waved an extra time for Cheri, as she stepped up to Mikey. Then Paul Kavanagh was stumbling for the mall entrance, oblivious to the gang members he brushed out of his way.

Someday, he was going to do things right.

HANZHONG, P.R.C.

The growing, seething mob chanted angrily. Many waved their fists at the video cameras, the ubiquitous cams that hung from streetlights, buildings and sometimes from tethered balloons. A few of the rioters shook rocks or sticks. The glass buildings surrounding the street reverberated with their chants. The packed mob—they filled the street and sidewalks like rush-hour pedestrians in any major Chinese city. Chest-to-chest, shoulder-to-shoulder, they swayed with repressed power. They were hungry, cold and bitter.

It was blustery, and most of the crowd wore gray overcoats. Over eighty percent were men under thirty and they were uniformly thin. They pressed against each other, shoving at times, often asking if it was true. Were the trucks leaving with their rice?

The front of the shuffling horde stood before the main gate to the massive rice processing plant. Several years ago, the institute had installed an iron fence, bars ten feet tall and with barbed points on top. Some chanters thrust their arms between the bars, shaking their fists at the militiamen on guard or recording them on their cell phones.

The thin line of militia behind the main gate stirred uneasily. It was supposed to be a routine shipment. The militiamen had arrived early this morning to provide security during transport and hadn’t expected anything like this. The eighteen militiamen gripped shiny rifles. Despite the chill, most of their faces glistened with sweat. Behind them rumbled a fleet of hidden semis, big ultra-modern haulers filled to capacity. They planned to transport the rice to the coastal region.

There was another man listening to the semis rumble. He was a former American. He stood at the front of the mob. At times the pressure from behind pushed him against the gate. He didn’t know it, but more people kept arriving. They joined the throng and packed the street as they added their chants. The echoing sounds were like thunder to others in the city, drawing the curious and frightening the rest, particularly the police and local Party members.

The former American, Henry Wu, gripped cold bars as bodies pressed against him. He grunted and pushed with his arms, straining as he shoved his back against the men behind, trying to gain breathing room. Henry had immigrated to China four years ago in 2028. He was a tractor driver, living in the city his father had escaped twenty-five years ago. Most of the Chinese in Hanzhong were Han. Henry was Manchu, a trifle taller than those around him and possessed of a singular difference, a gun.

Gaining space, Henry released the bars and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. In the left pocket his fingers curled around a Glock 19, an old automatic smuggled into China when he’d immigrated. Henry was sick of being hungry, and along with every else he was angry that their rice was being shipped to the coast. He knew he shouldn’t have brought the Glock, but he had it just the same.

He’d left America to find work. In China, there were jobs, but since the glaciation had worsened several years ago, there wasn’t enough food. A week ago, he’d talked to his sister over the phone. She lived in Detroit. There was food in the U.S., but after the Sovereign Debt Depression, there was seldom enough work.

Is it too much to ask for both? Henry thought to himself.

A militiaman blew a whistle, the normally piercing blast barely audible over the mass chanting. The burly militiaman stepped out of the line of guards as he brought a rifle-butt to his shoulder. The other militia stared at him, some with amazement. They were young men and clearly frightened by today’s events.

Henry craned his neck, looking to see what the commotion was about. Oh. A pimple-faced teenager shimmied up the bars. Reaching hands shoved him higher. The teenager moved carefully over the barbs, trying not to stick himself.

The aiming militiaman opened his mouth, letting the silver whistle drop to his chest. He shouted, at least it looked like he did. The volume from the chanting horde drowned out his words. His actions spoke loudly enough. Something must have made the militiaman pause. He glanced back at his companions. None of them had dared raise a rifle. The militiaman gestured angrily at them, berating his fellows. Was he the First Rank? He looked older than the rest, and the marks on his uniform were different.

A militiaman in the line shook his head at the First Rank. The others just looked at the older man.

Snarling, the First Rank with a mole beside his nose took two steps toward the gate. He aimed his rifle at the teenager and fired. The sound was loud. Those nearest quit chanting and the teenager slumped onto the barbs. He twitched in death, gigged on the iron fence.

While others shifted their cell phones, recording this, Henry found himself aiming his Glock. He squeezed off a shot. The banging retort hurt his ears. It made men around him flinch. The gun bucking in Henry’s hands shocked him.

The First Rank staggered backward as the bullet plowed through his stomach, blowing out cloth, flesh and intestines. The rifle fell as the First Rank hit the pavement, his head pointed away from the mob and toward the hidden semis.

The crowd went wild as it watched the hooked teenager. Men clutched the bars and madly rattled the fence. It groaned, leaning inward.

The remaining militia backed away from the enraged chanters. Then the militiaman on the left end of the line hurled his rifle away. Spinning around as his rifle bounced across the cement, the young man sprinted for the depths of the rice-processing plant. The panic was contagious as the example routed through sixteen numbed and frightened brains. Two other militiamen followed the deserter. That must have wilted whatever courage remained among the others. They turned to run, although several kept their weapons.

As the last militia disappeared around the nearest building, the crowd surged against the iron bars. The bars groaned and leaned farther inward. The front rank, including Henry, scrambled over bars so many of the poles crashed to the ground. Henry raced at the front of the horde, determined to grab several bags of rice.

The flight of the militia spread back through the mob like wildfire. It emboldened the horde, and the chanting increased in volume. Like a living beast, the mob surged forward.

Ten minutes later and at the rear of the mob, ninety Hanzhong policemen arrived. Jumping out of armored carriers, they drew batons and tasers. Blowing whistles, the police charged into the crowd, tasing and swinging batons.

It should have worked. This was China, and the normally cowed populace had generations of obedience trained into them. Today it was different because the mob had tasted victory. It was like a tiger drinking human blood. It liked the taste and wanted more. Perhaps as importantly, several of the dropped rifles made it into the rioters’ hands.

Shots rang out. Policemen fell to the paving. Buoyed by success, young men in the mob picked up rocks, bottles, anything. They rained debris onto the surprised police as popping shots sounded. More baton-wielders fell dead. Young men howled and they charged en mass. They bowled over policemen and ripped away batons. The beatings began immediately, as did merciless tasing of their tormentors.

Some police made it back to the carriers. They climbed aboard, fought off their attackers and drove for the nearest police headquarters. It was a massive building with two gleaming lion statues in front. There the police barricaded themselves behind heavy doors and the latest security systems.

Eighteen policemen died on the street. They were clubbed, tased until heart failure or shot. It was a heady feeling for the rioting masses, and they wanted more, much more.

The police radioed for outside help, and news of the trouble quickly reached the highest levels. As the police in the barricaded headquarters passed out rifles and took positions at the loopholes, a convoy of heavy trucks left the city of Guangyuan forty kilometers away. A different convoy roared from Baoji. Together, the two convoys raced three thousand riot police toward Hanzhong and its gigantic rice processing plant.

Many in Hanzhong had TVs and computers. Most blogged. China had become the richest nation on Earth by 2032, but those riches were spread unevenly. The vast majority of the new wealth generated these past twenty years had gone to the entrepreneurs and hard workers on the coast. Five hundred million coastal Chinese had tasted the good life, while one billion living inland faced continuing hard times. With worsening weather patterns, the inland dwellers faced famine. The worldwide cooling hurt agricultural production worse in some places than others. China had the unfortunate privilege of being among the hardest hit with lengthening cold snaps.

By now, the Hanzhong police were phoning one another, wondering what to do. They were frightened by the boldness of the rioters. They dreaded the looting and reached a quick consensus: to wait for reinforcements.

The first convoy reached Hanzhong at three twenty-four in the afternoon. The second arrived forty-three minutes later. A phone call from a raving police general in Baoji convinced the Hanzhong chief of police to begin riot suppression.

City communication cables were cut. Rushed Army electronic warfare (EW) units landed via helicopter and jammed satellite connections three hours later. Hanzhong was blacked out as the riot police, Army MPs and revitalized Hanzhong police began to shoot looters, rioters and subversives.

The police turned brutal then, wanting retribution. Nothing angered a master like a revolting slave. China was an ordered society, and the police gave the orders.

Then the higher powers began to arrive. Dong Dianshan—East Lightning. The East Lightning branch of the Party Security Service arrived at Hanzhong Airport at seven nineteen p.m. They wore brown uniforms with red straps running from the right shoulder to the red belt around their waist. An armband on their left arm showed a three-pronged lighting bolt. Each was a card-carrying member of the Socialist-Nationalist Party, what the former Communist Party had transformed into. Among their varied talents, East Lightning was practiced at rooting out ringleaders and enemy saboteurs.

The police had imprisoned thousands, but had only interrogated a handful. East Lightning now took over. Agents compared the video evidence, combing files from hundreds of webcams, looking for the perpetrators.

The next morning near ten fifteen a.m., as Henry Wu cowered in his apartment, police smashed through his door with a four-man pulverizer.

Henry already lay on the floor, with his hands behind his head. “I’m innocent!” he shouted. He’d trashed the Glock early this morning.

A police officer booted him in the side. Another shot a taser into his back, the prongs piercing his bathrobe and sticking in his flesh.

“You’re making a mistake!” Henry shouted.

The police shocked him into unconsciousness.

Henry awoke on the ride to Police Headquarters, Fifth District. He was handcuffed, sitting beside a large Korean officer in the back of a van. It was Chinese policy to use policemen of varying heritage. For instance, Han Chinese police worked in predominantly Manchu territory.

“Please,” Henry whispered. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

The Korean policeman pointed at the bags of looted rice found in Henry’s apartment.

“Is it a crime to eat enough to live?” Henry asked.

The Korean smirked, rolling his eyes.

After a bewildering set of twists and turns, the van entered Fifth District Police Headquarters. When the vehicle came to a halt, the side door rolled open. Two Mongolians in brown uniforms with red belts entered the vehicle, causing the van to tilt their way.

Henry’s stomach curdled. “Please,” he whispered. Then his mouth became so dry that he could no longer speak.

The two East Lightning operatives hustled Henry through the cargo entrance and to a large elevator. Once inside the elevator, it went down to the basement. When the door slid open, Henry’s knees buckled, and he might have pitched onto the cement.

Fortunately or not, the two operatives each gripped Henry by his arms, marching him through the underground garage as his feet dragged. They entered a lit room with a bloodstained chair in the center. The chair had strange drill-like devices around it, much like a twentieth century dentist’s chair.

Henry twisted, trying to free himself. The left operative touched a stun rod to Henry’s neck. A numbing shock ended Henry’s resistance. They dumped him in the chair and tightened leather straps around his legs, arms, chest and one around his forehead, pinning him in place.

“I’m a loyal Party member,” Henry said.

A new operative appeared, a small man with large ears. He, too, wore the brown uniform with red belts and the armband with the three-pronged lightning bolt. He smiled, and his eyes seemed reptilian.

“You are Henry Wu,” the man said, checking a computer-slate.

“I am, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You shot a soldier yesterday,” the small officer said.

The words shocked Henry worse than the stun device. East Lightning knew everything. “No,” he said. “That was someone else. You have the wrong man.”

“We shall see,” said the operative. “In case you wish to confess immediately, I will now explain the procedure. First, we shall inject you with a sense enhancer.” The man took a body-sized apron from a hook and tied it so it protected the front of his uniform. Next, he produced a large hypodermic needle. A sludge-like yellow solution moved within.

Henry tried to twist free, but the straps held him immobile.

The officer dabbed Henry’s neck with a cold, wet swab.

“Please,” Henry wept. “I just wanted some rice. I was so hungry. I was tired of the ache in my stomach.”

“Ah,” said the officer, as he stabbed the needle into Henry’s neck. The man pressed the plunger, squeezing the solution into Henry.

“All right!” shouted Henry. Spit flew from his mouth as he said, “I shot the militiaman. He killed the teenager. I had to do something.”

“Excellent,” the officer said. “It is most healthy that you admit to the truth.” He reached up for a drill, much as a dentist once had done, and lowered it toward Henry’s face as he sat down on a stool.

“What else do you want to know?” Henry asked, squirming to free himself.

“Many things,” the officer said. He tied a cloth over his mouth and nose, set aside his hat and slipped on a doctor’s cap. He flipped a switch and the drill began to whine. “First, Henry Wu, do you work for the CIA?”

“What?” Henry asked, bewildered.

“Open your mouth,” the officer said coldly.

Instead of opening his mouth, Henry clamped his jaws shut.

The two Mongolian operatives moved to the chair. They used thick fingers, prying open Henry’s mouth. One inserted a bracer to keep his teeth apart. The other inserted a tongue suppressor, to keep it out of the way.

“You will talk to me, Henry Wu. You will tell me what I want to know.”

An hour and twenty-four minutes later, it was over. The small officer switched off his recording device. Then he used a cloth to wipe the bloody specks from his hands. “Dump the body in the incinerator. Then give me several minutes before you bring in the next patient.”

“Sir?” asked the larger Mongolian.

“Hmm, is that too imprecise for you?” asked the officer. He took off the mask and sipped from a water bottle. “Make it fifteen minutes. Afterward, bring in the next one.”

The two operatives unbuckled the straps holding down Henry Wu’s contorted corpse. Each grabbed a shoulders and hip, lifting the corpse out of the chair. They carried Henry Wu to the mobile Security Incinerator they had brought along for the task. It looked like it was going to be a long day before they were through. At least the position paid well, and they were able to eat enough to keep their normal weight. Not everyone could say that these days. Therefore, they went about their task with quiet resignation, looking forward to tonight’s meal.

Meanwhile, the small officer who had interrogated Henry sat in his chair. He stared into space and smoked a cigarette. For his brief fifteen minutes, he blanked his mind, trying not to think about anything.

-3-

Plans

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

Two old friends in their early forties played ping-pong downstairs in a basement. They’d first met in college many years ago, both of them highly competitive at intramural sports. They had double-dated then and ended up marrying their girls. Both had stayed in Alaska where they had gone on many hunting and fishing trips together. They were like brothers, and even in their early forties, they were competitive.

Stan Higgins was a high school history teacher. He supplemented his sparse income as a captain in the Alaskan National Guard. His nickname was Professor, and he had read far too much military history for his own good.

Besides being a pastor, the second man, Bill Harris, was a sergeant in the local Militia. The Militia was a recent development due to limited Federal funding and the continuing shrinkage of the U.S. military. The Militia was voluntary, the men paying for their own weapons and uniforms. They mustered under their State’s control and had National Guard drill instruction every summer for those who wished for advanced training. Bill was one of those. The States with the largest Militias per capita were Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and Alaska. The three southern States had large Militias due to the proximity of the Mexican border. Alaska did because so many of the State’s population were hunters and fishermen.

Stan used his ping-pong paddle and bounced an orange ball up and down. Bill stood at the other end of the green table, waiting. The single bulb above the middle of the table flickered as the light dimmed. Brownouts were common these days and electrical grid repairs constant.

“Think the lights will stay on tonight?” Bill asked.

Stan grunted noncommittally. They had played four games of ping-pong already, tying at two wins each. Their wives talked upstairs as the children played board games.

“Just a minute,” Bill said. He moved to a shelf and checked his cell phone. “It’s getting late. Should we call it?”

The bulb stopped flickering then as the light strengthened.

“We can’t leave the series at a tie,” Stan said.

Bill nodded. “It’s more fun with a winner. Since this is the last game, should we volley for serve?”

“I lost the last game. Loser gets first serve next game.”

“Oh, okay,” said Bill, with an at-least-I-tried grin.

Stan kept bouncing the ball on his paddle. There was a distracted look on his face. He had been trying to forget about his dilemma all night. Trying to beat Bill had done that, but now…. He hadn’t wanted to bring this up, but after this game, he’d be leaving.

“Is anything wrong?” asked Bill.

Stan nodded. “It’s Sergeant Jackson.”

“The police officer?”

“I think he wants to bust my dad.” Then the words gushed out as Stan asked, “Is it wrong to hold a grudge?”

“Do you mean is it wrong for the officer to hold a grudge against your dad? Or is it wrong for you to hold a grudge against the officer?”

Stan looked up, letting the ping-pong ball bounce on the table and onto the floor.

“Bitterness never helps anyone,” Bill said.

“I know.”

“You need to forgive Sergeant Jackson for what he did to your dad.”

Stan scowled. “I understand what you’re saying….” He shook his head.

“Well, think of it like—”

“I’m sorry,” said Stan, as the bulb flickered again. “It’s late. We’d better finish the series before the power cuts off.” He retrieved the orange ball and took his serving stance.

“I know this can be a hard topic,” Bill said.

Stan didn’t want to think about it anymore. He should have known Bill would tell him to give his worry to God. Now Bill would start talking about it. Stan decided to put an end to the lecture, serving the ball, using a crafty spin.

Surprised by the serve, Bill moved too late. He still managed to hit the ball, but it zoomed into the net.

“One to zero,” Stan said.

Bill glanced at him. “One to zero,” he said, his voice changing from its reflective pastor’s tone to his competitive voice. Then the two friends began to play in earnest, this being the final match of the night.

BEIJING, P.R.C.

Jian Shihong rode in the back of a limousine as he passed big Chinese cars. City traffic moved past massive buildings in the heart of Beijing. The construction boom had altered the city. The rich lived in palaces, sprawling villas with gold inlaid marble, redwood furniture and magnificent gardens. The latest craze was having a zoo on one’s property with tigers, leopards, pandas, baboons—Jian had purchased a polar bear. He was inordinately proud of it and hoped to buy a male so he could mate them.

The heart of Beijing possessed titanic structures, showing the opulence of oil-rich China. It was a tribute to the nation’s greatness, to its power. Above the massive structures was the even larger Mao Square with the Politburo Building and the Chairman’s quarters. Glass towers reflected the sun’s light, while gigantic statues beggared the imagination. The Chairman had a mania for architecture. He wanted to show the world and China’s millions that nothing could compare with the present government. The construction boom flowered throughout China’s coastal region, and particularly here in Beijing.

The big cars manufactured in Chinese automotive plants moved along wide avenues as hordes surged along the extra-large sidewalks. Beijing had become the mightiest city on Earth.

Jian witnessed this but he enjoyed none of it as his security personnel escorted him to Mao Square. He was late for the meeting with the Chairman, a meeting that could well decide his fate in the world.

***

Jian Shihong hurried into a large room on the third floor of the Chairman’s governmental quarters. Huge paintings of former chairmen hung on the walls, beginning with Mao Zedong and ending with the present ruler of Greater China. They were painted in a heroic style. The portrait of the present Chairman showed a strong, youthful man with a wild shock of hair and an outthrust chin. It had little in common with the old man in the wheelchair sitting at the head of the table.

Jian nodded a greeting to the Minister of the Navy, an old admiral with a bald dome. Compared to the Chairman, the admiral was an example of youthful vigor.

The Chairman’s chin presently touched his chest and his eyes were closed. His withered hands rested on his lap, one covered by a plaid blanket. The formerly wild hair was combed to the right, and it was much thinner, showing patches of skull. A degenerative disease had been eating away at his strength for years now, radically altering a once hard-charging dictator. In earlier days, the Chairman had re-forged the old Communist Party into the Socialist-Nationalist organ that now swelled with the pride of nearly two billion Chinese. His vision had led the country through the terrible crises of 2019. The fact that it had been the Chairman’s guiding hand in 2016 that caused China to unload her U.S. Bonds had been carefully weeded from the history books. That unloading had brought about the American banking and stock market collapse, which in turn had started the Sovereign Debt Depression throughout the world. That worldwide shock had brought about the crises of 2019 in China.

Under the Chairman’s brilliance, China had emerged from the Sovereign Debt Depression as the most powerful nation on Earth. He had led them in the swift but profitable war against Siberia, then in the orgasmic Invasion of Taiwan and lastly in forging the Pan Asian League. Wresting Japan from America’s military orbit had been his greatest diplomatic coup.

The Chairman snored softly at the head of the table, gnome-like in appearance, but still holding the reins of power in his arthritic hands. His security personnel surrounded the building, hard-eyed killers chosen for their loyalty and willingness to murder anyone that the Chairman indicated. Ruthless secret policemen backed them. Those policemen used computers, truth serums and secret chambers to tear needed information from suspects. In the majority of cases, however, the Chairman used a velvet glove in his dealings. His deftness had won him much. But the iron was still there, as was the willingness to crush any opponent.

Like the others, Jian Shihong feared the Chairman. Jian wondered, as surely the others must, if the degenerative disease might one day cause the Chairman to institute a bloodbath as Mao had done during the Cultural Revolution in the 1960s. Despite the fear, Jian and the others attempted to maneuver the dying old man toward their particular projects. The Chairmen had become like an olden emperor, with Deng Fong as his prime minister and the others vying to gain the Chairman’s ear.

“Your tardiness surely indicates the contempt you feel toward the rest of us, Agricultural Minister,” Deng said.

“I beg your pardon,” Jian said. He’d had trouble at one of the checkpoints. It dawned on him that Deng might have engineered the trouble. The possibility put an icicle of renewed fear through Jian. Had Deng corrupted the Chairman’s bodyguards? Was Deng broadcasting his ability to assassinate the Chairman at his leisure? Jian wondered if he might have been wiser going to Deng in secret, falling on his knees and begging to become one of his followers.

Who am I to race with tigers? Jian thought to himself. These past weeks had been torture, as two more rice-riots had occurred in different parts of the country. Jian had maneuvered hard to keep his post, secretly using the last of his hidden food reserves to bolster stocks in the cities. In several months, real famine would stalk the inner provinces. They must find more sources of food.

In the old days before the new glacial period, the Earth’s food supply had come from two major areas: the great green plains of Europe and Russia and the American plains. China’s rice plains had helped, as had other regions. But the bulk of the food supply to feed the masses, the world’s billions, came from the two mighty plains. With the new glaciation, the Gulf Stream had changed its flow, causing massive freezing on the European and Russian plains. America was still blessed with warm enough weather to produce bumper crops. It meant that a starving world looked to America and to its Grain Union allies. It meant that Chinese wealth could only scrape up so much food on the open market. Then it needed the Grain Union’s storehouses. China needed American permission to buy.

Deng Fong stirred. He did not look like a tiger. He was in his mid-seventies and had a weak left eye that he could barely keep open. He wore a black suit of the finest make and had strangely smooth skin. It was one of Deng’s vanities, skin-tucks. Stories about his sexual exploits were legendary, as were the amounts of his testosterone injections and Viagra with which he was said to indulge himself.

Jian turned on his computer, one built into the table. He knew that one of the Chairman’s people would analyze everything he brought up, everything he read. The Chairman loved psychological profiles, placing an inordinate trust in them. Therefore, Jian had memorized a list of items he would look up here, items given him by his staff.

Deng cleared his throat, the sound aimed toward the head of the table. He sat nearest the Chairman. The Chairman snorted, and his eyelids flickered. Slowly, the old man opened his eyes, and just as slowly, the Chairman straightened his body. Everyone here knew it pained the old man to sit straight. They could see it on his face. But he did it anyway, refusing to hunch, and that frightened Jian. The Chairman examined each of them in turn. Jian felt the gaze like hot pokers in his soul.

There were four other Politburo members in the room. They belonged to the Ruling Committee, the Chairman’s inner circle of advisors.

Jian’s key ally was the Minister of the Navy, Admiral Qingshan, tall, handsome and still athletic at seventy-one. He was easily the most adventuresome personality in the room in terms of military action. Qingshan and Deng were bitter enemies.

“Sir,” Deng told the Chairman. “I’m afraid that I have terrible news to report.”

The Chairman swiveled his head so those hot eyes locked onto Deng Fong.

“Sir,” Deng said, “I am afraid that we have taken a viper amongst us. We have trusted a warmonger who plans to tread on the charred remains of a billion corpses so he can climb to supreme power.”

“Elaborate,” whispered the Chairman.

The whispery dry words tightened Jian’s stomach, and suddenly, the room felt much too warm.

Deng bowed his head and turned toward Jian, staring at him fixedly. “There is one among us who sabotaged my talks in Sydney. I believe he did it in hopes of stirring war. This war will cover his negligent mistakes in the agricultural sector. He would rather see millions die in a nuclear exchange than have his corrupt mishandling brought to light.”

“These are serious charges,” the Chairman whispered.

Jian now felt limp with fear as Deng turned to the old man in the wheelchair. Jian hadn’t expected a direct and personal assault today. Even more, he hadn’t expected Deng to bypass Admiral Qingshan in his admonishments. That had been part of the genius of Jian’s plan, or so he’d told himself more than once. Admiral Qingshan had authorized the commando mission against the American oil well. Jian had hoped to use the admiral as a shield as Qingshan bore the brunt of Deng’s verbal assault. Now—

“The Agricultural Minister used his insidious and occult powers to warp Admiral Qingshan’s good judgment,” Deng was saying. “He lured the admiral and tricked him into committing an adventurous and foolhardy act at precisely the wrong moment. The destruction of the American oil well occurred in the early morning, twelve hours before I would speak alone with the American Secretary of State. It sabotaged what I believe would have been a healing accord between our two nations. The Americans have grain. We have oil. The Americans need oil and we need grain. What better way to bring harmony between our two nations than trading oil for grain?”

You didn’t count on me learning about your plan, you cunning snake, Jian thought. Deng would have been the hero, bringing grain to a hungry nation. He would die as the failed Agricultural Minister. No, he had a different plan.

“Please excuse my interruption,” Jian said. “With your permission, sir,” he said to the Chairman, “I would like to point out certain salient points that Minister Fong has conveniently forgotten.”

The Chairman’s head swiveled slightly so those ancient eyes fell onto Jian. Again, Jian felt the power there, and knew now that his life was in peril.

“Speak,” the Chairman whispered in his ancient voice, “but make it brief.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jian said. His voice sounded weak. He would never convince anyone if he came across as timid. Sitting straighter, clearing his throat, he spoke in a deeper tone, trying to come across as assured. “Three years ago, at Minister Fong’s insistence, I took over the Agricultural Ministry.”

“You snatched at the opportunity for power,” Deng said. “You acted like a monkey in a panda tree.”

“Let him speak,” said the Chairman.

Deng bowed his head.

Jian blinked in amazement. Deng’s inappropriate words gave him confidence, and the rebuff from the Chairman—Jian felt his hopes soar. Then he wondered if the rebuff might have been engineered beforehand to give the appearance of fairness on the Chairman’s part. The thought was sobering, and it constricted his throat.

Jian lifted a glass of water, sipping, trying to marshal his thoughts. “As I was saying, sir, gentlemen, I took over the Agricultural Ministry at Minister Fong’s insistence. It was hoped I could turn around the disastrous failures of the previous years. I worked with painstaking zeal, routinely putting in sixteen-hour workdays. I tried many expedients. The sad truth is that nature has conspired against China. Glaciation combined with our great population has made self-sufficiency in foodstuffs an impossibility. It is the same everywhere as famine stalks the planet. Only a few nations export grain or other foods. Occidentals of European origin control each of the grain-exporting nations. They have formed a union—”

“These things are known to us,” Deng said. “Sir—”

“Let him speak,” the Chairman said. “You have laid the charge. Now let him defend himself—if he can.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jian said. “My point is that these barbarians have long conspired against China. In our days of weakness, they carved our glorious nation into separate spheres of influence. It was you, sir, who finally brought the last of our stolen lands home. We are strong again, the strongest nation on Earth. Can any of us truly believe that the Anglo nations will accept this and roll onto their backs for us?”

“You are deluded,” Deng said. “The Western powers gave up their chauvinism long ago. This is the nuclear age—”

“China needs fear no nuclear attack!” Jian said forcefully, banging his fist on the table. “We have the most modern anti-ballistic missile and laser defense system in the world. If the Americans dare launch their ballistic missiles, our defensive systems will knock them down. Then they would lie supine before us, dreading our missiles that could rain upon them with impunity.”

“How does destroying the American breadbasket help China?” Deng asked.

“It doesn’t,” admitted Jian. “I merely point out the ludicrous idea that America, or any other nation, can threaten China with nuclear weapons.” He pointedly glanced at Admiral Qingshan and the Police Minister, yearning for their verbal support.

Xiaodan Yang, the Police Minister, was lean. He wore thick glasses and possessed strangely staring eyes. He gave Jian a nearly imperceptible nod of encouragement. The man’s eyes seemed to shine behind the thick glasses, but he didn’t say anything. Admiral Qingshan seemed lost in thought, perhaps not even listening to the argument.

“You viper,” Deng said. “You mouth war when peace can serve us better. The Americans were about to increase their grain exports as we ship them more oil.”

“Do you trust these Americans?” Jian asked. “Aren’t you aware of their new space program? They aren’t foolishly attempting to land men on Mars or return to the Moon. Instead, they are building a laser launch-site. They are on the cusp of building a system to put items into space at a cheap cost per ton. With it, they will build a Solar Powered Satellite that collects the sun’s rays and micro-beams the free energy to Earth. It is the next step in industrial power.”

“It already changes our weather patterns,” Police Minister Xiaodan said.

Deng glanced at the Police Minister before he said, “You both spout folly.”

“Do you deny the fact of their space program?” asked Jian. He hoped Xiaodan didn’t say anything about Henry Wu, the supposed CIA agent. It had helped sway Admiral Qingshan earlier, but it wouldn’t help here.

“Our technologists are hard at work on a similar space system,” Deng said. “This is all beside the point.”

“If the Americans build enough of these satellites,” Jian said, “they will no longer need our oil. What then shall we trade for their badly needed grain?”

Deng stared at Jian before he turned to the Chairman. “He confuses the issue, a tactic he has perfected as Agricultural Minister.”

The Chairman nodded slowly. “Make your point, Jian Shihong.”

Even as the small hairs prickled on the back of Jian’s neck, he spoke out strongly. “Now is the moment to strike, sir. Now is the time to fix the American food market in our favor—forever.”

“By destroying oil platforms?” the Chairman asked sarcastically.

The old man’s eyes seemed like twin lasers stabbing into Jian’s heart. He took a deep breath. This was coming on much faster than he had planned. Jian wished Admiral Qingshan or Xiaodan would speak up in his defense. Unfortunately, like everyone else, they were afraid of the Chairman. Maybe they were also afraid of Deng Fong. In that moment, Jian realized that he must lead the other two. To lead them, he would have to persuade the old man in the wheelchair.

“Sir, if I may,” Jian said, “I’d like to point out the example of Cheng Ho.” He knew the Chairman loved the history of Cheng Ho. The dictator kept a large model of one of the medieval sailing ships on the bottom floor of the Politburo Building.

Cheng Ho had been an admiral in Chinese history. He had explored the Indian Ocean and the eastern coast of Africa several decades before the Europeans crawled down the African coast in the other direction. Cheng Ho’s ships and fleet had been huge, especially when compared to the Portuguese ships of the day. Due to Chinese inwardness and other political factors, the emperor recalled Cheng Ho and forbade further marine exploration. Thus, the Europeans had “discovered” and eventually conquered the East instead of the East discovering the West.

Deng laughed. It was a triumphant sound. He glanced at the Chairman. “I believe that our Agricultural Minister has become unhinged. What does medieval history have to do with blowing up oil wells, hoping to start a nuclear war?”

“You are incorrect,” Jian said. “The oilrig was destroyed in order to strengthen China’s hand.”

“Do you believe we are fools?” Deng said. “You did it to sabotage my talks. Can you truly think the Americans will back down as we destroy their oil industry? If you want historical examples, I will give you one from the last century. Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and thereby brought about their empire’s destruction.”

“Are you so afraid of the Americans that you fear they will destroy China?” Jian asked.

Xiaodan gave another of his nearly imperceptible nods of encouragement. If only the Police Minister would speak openly, leaving out any of his fantastical nonsense.

“Once the Americans discover we destroyed the platform,” Deng said, “they may begin destroying our offshore wells in turn.”

“Our navy is superior to the deteriorated American Fleet,” Jian said. “If they dared such attacks, we would hunt down their ships and sink them on sight.”

“You are quite wrong,” Deng said. “Study history. No English-speaking nation has lost a naval war in five hundred years.”

Admiral Qingshan frowned as he began to shake his head.

Xiaodan’s nostrils flared.

Seeing these things, Jian asked in seeming disbelief, “Do you truly pour such contempt upon the Chinese Navy?”

“It is not a matter of contempt,” Deng said. “Reality must guide us. American submarines are still better than ours. Yes, the Debt Depression and secessionist unrest has hurt them. Their defense expenditures are but a ghost of their former outlays. But their navy is still formidable, quite possibly a match for ours.”

“Then why didn’t the Americans face us off the shores of Taiwan?” asked Jian. “During the reunification, their vaunted Pacific Fleet sailed to Hawaii, afraid of our massed fleet.”

“They were afraid of our land-based attack craft and Yuan ship-killers,” Deng said. “Our air armada dwarfed anything they could muster near Taiwan.”

“I would have silence,” whispered the Chairman.

Jian had been about to retort. Now he closed his mouth as he felt his heart hammering. Deng glanced at the old man before nodding.

The Chairman leaned forward, with his elbows on the table. He breathed heavily, and there was anger in his eyes.

“Agricultural Minister,” the Chairman asked, “have you been speaking with Admiral Qingshan?”

“Sir?” asked Jian.

“Do not practice your evasiveness with me, young man. Have you plotted with the admiral?”

“I have spoken with him concerning our mutual distrust of the Americans, sir.”

“You are testing my patience, Jian Shihong.”

Jian reached for his water glass and noticed that his fingers shook. He quickly put his hand back on the table.

“Did you suggest to the admiral that he launch the attack on the American oil facility?” the Chairman asked.

Jian’s mouth opened, but no words issued.

“He did, sir,” Admiral Qingshan said in his gravely voice.

Deng slammed a fist on the table. “I knew it!” In the growing silence, Deng’s head swayed back as he glanced at the watching Chairman. “Please forgive me my outburst, sir,” Deng said. “It was ill considered.”

The Chairman’s head swiveled so he stared once more at Jian. “Tell me why you would do such a thing, Agricultural Minister. Why step so far out of your bounds?”

Jian bowed his head. Here was the moment. Now he was on the edge of life and death. Choosing his words with care, he said, “I am convinced that the Energy Minister has taken China on a false path, sir.”

“A path that I sanctioned,” the Chairman whispered angrily.

Knowing that he could find himself hustled out of the room in the next few minutes, frog-marched by killers and possibly placed before a firing squad, Jian still forced himself to argue. He had little to lose now. “Sir, we cannot feed ourselves. I know this better than anyone.”

“You have failed to improve the agricultural industry,” Deng sneered. “That’s all you are saying. For that, you should be shot.”

Jian caught the Chairman’s angry glance at Deng. It was tactless to interrupt the old man. In former days, it would have brought terrible punishment. Clearly, the Chairman was beginning to resent these interruptions.

“Sir,” Jian said, making his voice contrite. “If you would allow me to answer that baseless charge…?”

“…speak,” whispered the Chairman.

Deng’s surprise at the permission emboldened Jian. “You are a clever man, Energy Minister. You slyly maneuvered me into accepting my present post. You promised to aid me and stand by my side if I would only attack the food problem with my customary zeal. I use your own words, not my own. Now I wonder if you secretly feared me and encouraged me to tackle a problem that no one can solve. China needs the Grain Union, or it needs the foodstuffs they so treacherously horde for their own use. You counsel us to go to them hat in hand, hoping to gain their good will. But life does not progress in that manner. The truth of history is that the strong survive and the weak fade away. We must cripple America and force them to trade to our benefit and at our call. That is the only long-term solution worthy of the greatest power on Earth.”

“War?” asked Deng.

“You make it sound as if I counsel a nuclear exchange, which is madness. I’m speaking about a limited war with limited goals as the Chairman achieved in Siberia and Taiwan.”

“War against America?” asked Deng. “Do you think us so superior to them that we can land in California and take their best farmlands through swift armor assaults?”

“You are adept at building a straw man and easily knocking him down,” Jian said. “No one here suggests what you just said. I spoke about a limited war. Our marshal and admiral are quite familiar with the subject. They have practiced war-games concerning it many times. I suggest a swift invasion of Alaska, the last great oil-bearing region of America. Once we own it, we will possess the Arctic Ocean oil basin and control the great Prudhoe Bay fields. With Alaska in our possession, the Americans will be at our mercy in energy terms. We will then ship them their own oil for massive imports of grain. The food rationing here will end and our Party’s power will rest secure for another generation at least. There will be no more rice riots and no more ugly executions in police basements.”

The people in the rich cities on the coast had already become accustomed to bread, to foodstuffs made by grain. Those in the interior still primarily ate rice. It would take time to accustom them to bread. But it was inevitable that they learn because the rice harvests were smaller each year.

“I’ve heard enough,” Deng said. “You spout madness. Invade Alaska? The Americans aren’t Siberians. They own a continent, not a tiny island like Taiwan. You cannot simply rip Alaska out of their grasp and hope the conflict ends there. World Wars have started on lesser pretexts.”

“No one thinks Americans are Siberians or Taiwanese,” Jian said. “But I don’t think you’ve studied their present force levels with a critical eye.”

“And you as Agricultural Minister have?” Deng sneered.

“The Debt Depression badly weakened their navy,” Jian said. “They’ve decommissioned countless vessels and hardly purchased any new hardware. Added to the continuing secessionist trouble, along with the Mexico Situation, means they dare not commit their army units elsewhere in any force.” Jian nodded in the admiral’s direction. “I have spoken with Admiral Qingshan and we’ve talked about his strategists’ plan to cripple the American Fleet before the start of hostilities.”

“What plan?” the Chairman asked, swiveling his gaze onto the admiral.

Reluctantly, it seemed, Admiral Qingshan explained the plan.

“An interesting concept,” the Chairman whispered, after Admiral Qingshan had fallen silent.

“Sir,” Deng said. “This all sounds like unadvised adventurism. The admiral’s so-called bold plan is nothing more than a terrorist assault on a large scale. If it fails—”

“Why should it fail?” asked Jian. “The White Tigers are the foremost Special Forces in the world. Their record of success is spotless.”

“Sir,” Deng said.

Everyone in the room turned to the Chairman. He had a far-off look as he stared at some distant point. He blinked slowly as he regarded the others. “On the cusp of the Siberian Invasion years ago, there were those who told me I was too adventuresome,” he told Deng.

Jian closed his eyes as his stomach continued to seethe. His profilers had told him the Chairman still dreamt of military glory. It was something that always seemed to draw on conquerors for one more roll of fate’s dice. The Chairman’s name was intimately linked with the victories in Siberia and Taiwan. Surely, the idea of matching strength and wits against the formerly mighty Americans appealed to the Chairman’s vanity. Jian’s plan had counted on it.

“Come gentlemen,” Deng implored. “Am I wrong in suggesting that war with America is against our national interests?”

The marshal stirred. He was the Army Chief of Staff and the Army Minister. He had strangely sculptured features and smooth skin. He was eighty, used botox injections and had artistic leanings. He was known as cautious, one who loved building an army but fearing to use it.

He bowed his head in the Chairman’s direction before saying, “We would need time to prepare, sir. Some of our most capable units are stationed in Siberia and Taiwan. An Alaskan invasion would demand complete control of the sea. If the Navy can guarantee passage and keep the supply lanes open, it would be possible. I would think eight months preparation—”

“What about a cross-polar attack against Prudhoe Bay?” Jian asked. “Most of the needed units are already in position or nearly so. We have the trains to bring them to the forward areas. Some of these formations are already in Siberia. It would take two weeks at most to bring them into readiness for a swift polar assault. Even before that, you could begin pre-positioning the needed supplies onto the ice.”

Sputtering, the marshal asked, “Where did you learn this? These are highly confidential matters.”

“I am a member of the Ruling Committee,” Jian said. “Tell me. Do you deny these things?”

“I deny nothing,” the marshal said. “I want to know how you learned of them.”

“Are the ice-mobile formations ready?” asked Jian.

“No, not as you suggest,” the marshal said.

“How long until they are?” asked Jian.

“I will not sit here and be quizzed by a failed Agricultural Minister,” the marshal told the others.

“Answer his question,” the Chairman said.

The old marshal of China sat back in surprise. “Sir?” he asked.

“Answer the question,” the Chairman repeated. “How long until the ice-mobile formations are ready?”

“Sir,” said the marshal, blinking rapidly, “…two months, maybe more.”

Jian pushed a button and on his screen appeared a force readiness chart. “If you gentlemen will bring my information onto your screens, you’ll see that the marshal has exaggerated. We have the needed ice-mobile units in position now, or nearly so. They could begin crossing the Arctic Ocean in six days at the soonest or two weeks at the most.”

The marshal touched his screen and he glared at what he saw.

“No, no,” he said. “The charts show the needed force for a probing raid. What Minister Shihong is suggesting would take an invasion force.”

“The formations in position would be more than enough to occupy the oilfields,” Jian said.

“Preposterous!” said the marshal. “Firstly, army units are not like combine drivers during a harvest. Intense training is needed. Secondly—”

“While I respect your military acumen,” Jian said, “I must point out that our Chairman practiced a different style of warfare against Siberia and Taiwan. Each time, he launched an assault before our enemies suspected anything. He gained the greatest of all assets in war, strategic surprise. If we launch in two weeks, we will easily catch America and the world by surprise, and therefore we shall succeed. To do as you’re suggesting, to train, mass and wait for the perfect moment, is to wish for failure by alerting our enemies. We would certainly be stronger by gathering our strength, but our foe would also be that much stronger and waiting for our attack.”

“You are drunk,” the marshal said. “This is madness.”

“I speak about facts and you hurl insults,” Jian said. “Tell me. Was the Chairman drunk when we invaded Siberia?”

“Sir,” the marshal said quickly. “I meant no insult concerning your amazing exploits.”

The Chairman had been carefully following the exchange. He now asked Admiral Qingshan, “Earlier, the marshal spoke about supplies for his troops. Could you guarantee open sea-lanes to Alaska?”

“There are no guarantees in war,” the admiral said carefully.

The words were like a stab in Jian’s chest. What was this, betrayal? Thirty-eight days ago, the admiral had agreed to his plan. Was he backing out now?

“Without such guarantees, I am against such adventurism,” the marshal said.

The Chairman scowled.

“We wouldn’t necessarily need Army help,” the admiral said in the ensuing silence. “My naval infantry brigades could capture Alaska.”

Jian felt hope again, and he wondered what game the admiral played.

“This is yet more folly,” Deng said.

“Not necessarily,” said Admiral Qingshan. “The Agricultural Minister makes an interesting point.”

“Which is what?” Deng asked.

“A swift assault, strategic surprise,” Admiral Qingshan said. “As the Chairman surely knows, we are three days from a large-scale naval exercise.”

Deng slapped the table. “Sir, here is evidence that both the Agricultural Minister and the admiral have conspired against you.”

“Explain,” whispered the Chairman.

“Are we to believe that this naval exercise just happens to be occurring now?” asked Deng. “It would have been planned months in advance. The needed logistics and preparations—”

“I am well aware of what it entails to launch a large-scale naval exercise,” the Chairman said. “What is your point?”

“Sir, I believe they timed their commando mission to thwart my trip to Sydney so they could begin this war with America, using the naval exercise as a blind.”

“When did you plan your trip to Sydney?” Jian asked in seeming innocence.

Deng glared at him.

“Hmm,” the Chairman said. “You told me of your plan five weeks ago, Deng. Instead of secretive plotting by your comrades, I think that fate has given us a golden opportunity. Strategic surprise is a rare and valued thing. If we move quickly now, we shall catch the Americans and the world with their pants around their ankles.” The Chairman turned to Admiral Qingshan. “The oil-bearing regions around ANWR and Prudhoe Bay, could the Navy secure those, too?”

“Possibly, sir,” Admiral Qingshan said. “When I spoke earlier I meant securing the major Alaskan cities and ports, particularly Anchorage. Fully half the Alaskan population lives in and around metropolitan Anchorage. Capture it, and the State will naturally fall to us.”

“You wouldn’t need Navy guarantees for open sea-lanes if you only made the polar attack,” Jian told the marshal. “You could use the ice-mobile units now in Siberia, possibly with an addition of a few specialist formations.”

“I demand to know how you’ve learned about the polar assault war-game plans,” the marshal said. “They are top secret and of recent design. Few in the Army even know about them.”

It was through the Police Minister, but Jian wasn’t going to tell anyone that. There were highly patriotic generals on the marshal’s planning staff. Some of them were spies for the Security Bureau—the Police. Jian simply stared at the old marshal and shrugged.

The marshal sputtered.

“I do not believe what I’m hearing,” Deng said. “Jian Shihong has jeopardized our nation by his interference in military matters. His urging of the destruction of the American oil well sabotaged us at the most critical moment in Sydney. The Americans will never give us preferred status now for wheat and corn purchases.”

“Then we must show them the Chinese fist,” Jian said. “The Americans are like an aging woman who still possesses charms. A few sharp slaps across the face will teach this woman her place.”

“Spoken no doubt as a practiced rapist,” Deng said.

“Your mockery of Chinese military power has not gone unnoticed, Deng Fong,” Jian said.

“I only mock your plans,” Deng said. “It is either the ravings of a lunatic or the desperation of a guilty man.”

“So a few frightened men dared to say about our honored Chairman before he sent troops into Siberia,” Jian said. “The Chairman’s courage has richly rewarded China. What will our courage here now give us?”

“Siberia was weak and Russia was an ailing power then,” Deng said.

“You have a vicious soul to denigrate our Chairman’s foresight and courage,” Jian said. “Only our glorious Chairman had the manliness to deal with the problem directly by unleashing our military might. The Northeastern Area was finally returned to China after too many years in Russia’s dirty grip. The nation wept with joy, and we gained the vast Siberian oilfields.”

“You carried China on your shoulders, sir,” Deng told the Chairman. “No one here denigrates your noble deeds. But suppose we capture Alaska and still the Americans refuse to sell us grain? Then what have we gained?”

“Your rhetorical tricks won’t blind us today,” Jian said. “We would turn the wheel, cutting off their oil. Many of their industries would grind to a stop. Their cars would lie idle and there would be a revolution in America, as everyone understands their love affair with motor vehicles.”

“I am not convinced you’re right,” Deng said. “The Americans have learned how to clean coal, and they have massive reserves of it. Lack of oil would also spur them into space and construction of the Solar Powered Satellites.”

“That all lies well in the future,” Jian said. “We may not have that future if our people riot from lack of rice.”

“All brought about because of your amateur meddling in foreign affairs,” Deng said with heat.

“No!” Jian said, “For I’ve learned the lesson of Cheng Ho. Chinese greatness depends on our acting forcefully now that the scepter of world power has once again been laid in our hand. It is time to usher in an era of worldwide Chinese civilization. All we must do is act quickly, act with strategic surprise as the Chairman has shown us twice before.”

“No,” Deng said. “War with America would be a grave error.”

“Comrade Deng,” the Chairman whispered, “tell us where we shall gain the extra foodstuffs now that America has closed its doors to us? Without massive imports, the people will riot. Such rioting could topple us from power. Jian Shihong is correct in pointing that out.”

Deng blinked several times. “Perhaps secret protocols with Australia—”

“Don’t you understand that the Anglo-run powers plan to use grain to regain their preeminence?” asked Jian. “In their days of glory, they stole the best farmlands from indigenous peoples. Now they use those farmlands against the rest of the world. Must we go begging to them for food? Must we attempt to gain their goodwill when we possess the greatest army and navy in history?”

“War is a gamble,” Deng said, “as Admiral Qingshan just reminded us several minutes ago. There are no guarantees.”

“Leaving a seething volcano of hungry people under us is a greater gamble,” Jian said. He believed it was wiser for him to point this out than to let anyone else do it. In this way, he seemed like a strong man, unafraid of the consequences of his failed farm policies. “China is rich,” he said, “but we are hungry. Now the Anglo-heathens refuse to sell us grain. Very well, we shall force them to sell it by taking American oil. I see no other way, other than to crawl on our knees to them and kiss their feet. Do you wish to kiss their feet, Deng Fong?”

“I wish for peace,” Deng said.

“And a rice revolt?” asked Jian.

“This revolt would not have occurred if you could have grown enough rice,” Deng said.

“No one could have grown enough rice during an ice age,” Jian said. “A bold military thrust into Alaska shall change everything. It will save our Party and save China.”

“Sir,” Deng said, turning to the Chairman. “Let me examine the situation in detail. I will report back to you.”

“As the people seethe and their bellies rumble?” Jian asked.

“We have the police and army,” Deng said. “There will be no revolt.”

“Ah,” Jian said. “I see. You would rather we shed Chinese blood than hurt an American. How noble of you to care more for a barbarian than one of your own. I am proud to say that I do not share such a sentiment.”

“Sir,” said Police Minister Xiaodan. “My profilers believe we shall have increasingly bloody riots as the year progresses. If something isn’t done to alleviate the hunger, we shall have to institute massive suppression. The police battalions may need Army support.”

“What do you say, Deng?” the Chairman asked. “Shall we shed Chinese or American blood?”

Deng’s bad eye twitched, almost closing it. “I am against war, sir.”

“So we bleed our people?” the Chairman whispered.

“…no, sir,” Deng said.

“What then?” the Chairman whispered.

Jian leaned forward as he wet his lips. His armpits were soaked with sweat. He felt a trickle slide down his side.

“Perhaps a detailed war-study,” Deng said.

“I do not believe we have the time,” whispered the Chairman, “not if we hope to keep this preciously-given strategic surprise. This is a gift Fate has given us so China may forever secure her greatness.”

Every member present watched Deng Fong. He seemed to wilt under their combined stares. “Perhaps, sir, the polar raid to snatch the oil fields would prove enough of a lever.”

For a response, the Chairman’s chin sank onto his chest.

Jian was afraid the Chairman had fallen asleep. He had done so before, just as abruptly. Then Jian saw that the man’s eyes were open. For some reason, that frightened Jian. The old man was clearly thinking deeply.

Finally, the Chairman straightened his pain-racked body. “We will finalize the preparations for an Alaskan assault,” he said in a dry voice. “Admiral, you will continue preparations for a naval exercise, adding naval infantry brigades for a mass assault against metropolitan Anchorage.”

“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Qingshan.

“You will also begin to implement your secret plan for crippling the American Navy,” the Chairman said. “In two weeks, no less than three, we must surprise the world with a bold snatching of Alaska.”

“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Qingshan.

“Marshal, you shall finalize preparations for this cross-polar raid. Use the trains, use air transport, but get those specialist units ready for an immediate assault across the ice.”

“What if the Navy fails in its assigned tasks, sir?” asked the marshal. “It might leave my men open on the north slope of the Alaskan coast.”

“You will plan for Navy success,” the Chairman said, “not for failure. But if you feel that you cannot perform this task, tell me at once so I may find a general who can.”

“The Army will not fail you, sir,” the marshal said.

A grim smile stretched the Chairman’s face, showing the wrinkles there and the spottiness of his skin. He was diseased, but he seemed more invigorated than he had been for a long time.

A conqueror only truly loves conquering. Jian’s profilers had guessed right, and he was gaining a new lease on life. It was strange but heady to think he had brought about a war with America through his words. His words were a lever that were about to move the world. That was power, and it felt good, very good.

“Our Minister of Agriculture has seen farther than the rest of you,” the Chairman said. “We will not repeat the failure that faced Cheng Ho. This time, the Chinese will rise above every nation on Earth and stamp the world with its superior civilization. First, however, we must survive this new glacial period and gain for our people a secure food supply. Are there any here who disagree with our plan?”

Those last words were famous. According to legend they’d been spoken a week before the Siberian Invasion. Also, according to a much-whispered story, a minister had spoken up then, urging caution. As if delighted, the Chairman had thanked the minister for the courage to speak his mind. He had asked the minister to step outside with him so the man could tell him his worries in private. The two had left the room and they had left the other ministers and generals. Seconds later, a shot had rung out. The Chairman returned alone, with a smoking pistol in his hand.

Today, no one spoke up against the finalized plan, not even Deng.

“Then I declare the meeting over,” the Chairman said. “Everyone is dismissed. Ah, except for you, Jian Shihong. I wish to speak with you alone. I would know more how you envision this battle to proceed.”

Jian’s heart beat faster. He had intrigued and plotted to survive Deng’s personal attack. Might he have stumbled onto the key to the highest position? Was the Chairman going to name him as his successor? Winning the war against America could possibly give him everything, while losing it—no, he mustn’t think about that. China would win. For his sake, it had too.

-4-

Placement

ALASKA

The small plane shuddered as metal groaned. All around Paul Kavanagh, men swore and gripped their armrests tightly. Outside, the wind howled like a legion of arctic demons. Each change in pitch sent the plane lurching in a different direction. There were eight new Blacksand employees in the plane’s passenger seats.

From the rearmost one, Paul stared out of a tiny window. It was dark outside expect for the particles of white that beat against the glass. He couldn’t see the stars. He couldn’t see the ground. He couldn’t see crap and that was starting to make him hate this place. It was ten times worse here than northern Quebec. The Canadian Shield had been a rocky wasteland of snow, pines and the most ancient stones in the world. There had never been storms like this during his combat against the French-Canadian separatists.

According to what the Blacksand rep had told the eight of them before boarding in Anchorage, the plane was likely north of the tree line by now. Beyond the tree line was the tundra, a land of ice, snow and blizzards worse than any Saharan sandstorm.

Another gust howled around their puny craft. The plane lurched upward as metal groaned. It felt as if a giant twisted the tubular main section, trying to pry it apart and spill them like ants onto the snow below. Just how far below the snow actually was, Paul had no idea, and that troubled him.

A speaker crackled into life several feet away, and the pilot spoke. At least, Paul figured it was the pilot. The man was hidden behind a curtain up front, a curtain that swayed far too much. Paul heard garbled words from the speaker. He had no idea what the pilot was trying to tell them. There was no way he was going to unbuckle to crawl closer to find out, either. Therefore, he was glad when the speaker quit broadcasting its gibberish.

A new wind shoved them sideways so the plane seemed to skip like a stone flung across a pond. Paul might have heard a moan. It was hard to hear anything but the roaring engines and wind. Then the man across the nearly nonexistent aisle was bent over, his forehead shoved against the back of the seat before him. The man spewed onto his black combat boots. The grim odor caused Paul’s stomach to lurch.

As the man wiped his lips, he glanced over. Paul remembered that his name was Murphy. The man was squat, with dark, curly hair and the whitest face Paul had ever seen. There were beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. Murphy was an ex-Army Ranger and had bragged earlier about his sniper skills. He’d said something about hoping to bag seals the way Eskimos used to do it with harpoons. According to Murphy, now the Eskimos or Inuit used rifles to take headshots. They had to make sure they killed the seal with a single shot. The marine mammals slept by their air holes, and if you only wounded the beast, it slid into the hole and out of sight.

Paul wondered how many seals lived near the oilrig where they were headed. Were they like sea lions in Monterey, California, the kind that never stopped barking? He remembered his honeymoon in Monterey and eating out at night on the Old Fisherman’s Wharf. Cheri had commented several times on the barking sea lions.

The treacherous wind shifted yet again, shoving the plane down. Paul’s gut lurched as they dropped into a freefell. For a sickening instant, he couldn’t hear the engines. Is this what it felt like to space-walk, to float in zero gravity? Then the engines roared once more. It was a tortured sound, but welcome nonetheless. The plane quit falling, and it pitched forward, buffeted one way and then another.

In the plane’s flickering cabin light, Paul saw moisture in Murphy’s eyes.

“We’ll make it!” Paul shouted into Murphy’s ear. You could hardly call it an aisle between them. It had been hard for both of them squeezing into their seats. Paul could barely hear his own words and wondered if Murphy had heard him. He clapped Murphy on the shoulder, squeezing, trying to impart hope into the man. Paul felt iron-hard muscles. He wondered why Murphy had left the Army Rangers. Was he another hard case? Were they all losers in this plane, each in his separate way?

Shaking his head, Paul vowed that this time he was going to win. This time he’d keep his job. He’d excel and send Mikey…and Cheri the money they needed.

The speaker crackled into life again, and the pilot spoke more of his gibberish. Paul would have liked to know what the man was saying.

Instead of unbuckling to find out, Paul hunched his head and watched the white particles appear out of the darkness and beat against the window. For all he could see, this might as well have been some alien planet. He hoped the pilot had radar and could talk to someone to guide them to a safe landing.

***

Two-and-a-quarter hours later, the plane skidded across a runway in Dead Horse. The place was the last inhabited spot before the vast ocean of ice. It was the nearest town to Prudhoe Bay.

Several years ago, the Prudhoe Bay oilfields had been given a new lease on life. The science of extracting oil had continued to advance. New, deeper oilfields had been discovered here, dwarfing the existing fields and expanding Alaska’s importance. Combined with the recently built derricks in ANWR, this northern slope region had become one of the most concentrated oil-producing sites in the world.

The plane finally came to a stop and two snowmobiles raced to them. Soon, a hatch opened and the men scaled down the ladder to the snow. In the swirling particles, there was shouting and pointing. Then two heavily-bundled men guided the spent Blacksand personnel to a nearby shed.

The storm had passed although snow continued to fall. Most of Dead Horse had been constructed out of prefabricated buildings, an island of light in the Arctic darkness.

Paul was the last to get indoors. His cheeks and nose were cold. When the door slammed shut, he pulled off his gloves and wiped ice from his eyebrows.

Two heaters glowed beside snowmobiles and snow-blowing equipment. Folding chairs had been set up, with narrow pallets and sleeping bags beside them. Some of the new Blacksand personnel slumped like dead men on the sleeping bags.

Paul and several others moved to one of the heaters. A folding table had been set up with candy bars and hot chocolate.

The door opened letting snow blow inside. A short man stepped in, shut the door and unwound a scarf from his face. He had leathery features, wore a woolen hat and looked like an Indian, an unsmiling warrior with the darkest eyes Paul had ever seen. He told them his name was John Red Cloud.

“You men will sleep here,” Red Cloud said. He had an odd accent that Paul couldn’t place. He guessed the Indian to be another Blacksand agent.

Red Cloud pulled back the edge of his parka sleeve and glanced at a watch. “You’re leaving in five hours. Walk around in here if you feel like stretching, eat some bars, play cards or sleep. I suggest you sleep.”

“How about some whiskey?” Murphy asked.

Paul thought he saw a speck of barf still around Murphy’s lips.

Red Cloud solemnly shook his head. “No alcohol.”

“Where’s the nearest bar?” Murphy asked.

Red Cloud frowned. He looked tough man, someone you wouldn’t want to make angry. “The ride out to the rig will be rough enough without drunks puking on the plane. You walk around in here, eat some candy or sleep. You look like you need to sleep.”

Murphy was pale and his hands still shook as if from withdrawal. He glanced at the candy and snatched a chocolate bar, grumbling to himself as he tore it open.

“Stay put,” Red Cloud said.

“Where are you going?” Murphy asked.

“You’re in Blacksand now,” Red Cloud said, beginning to sound annoyed. “That means you obey orders. If you can’t do that, we’ll fine you and make you pay the bill for your plane ride. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Murphy muttered, and he took another bite of his bar.

Red Cloud studied them coolly, and he shook his head. Then he wound the scarf back around his face. He hurried out, slamming the door behind him.

“Little bastard,” Murphy muttered. “All I need is a couple of shots of whiskey and I’d feel fine.”

Paul grabbed a packet of chocolate-covered peanuts. He popped them into his mouth one at a time. After he was finished, he was thirsty for something other than melted snow.

“I need several shots,” Murphy declared.

Two men sat by a different heater, playing blackjack. The others lay on the sleeping bags, one of them already snoring.

“You feel like a shot?” Murphy asked Paul.

“I could use a beer,” Paul admitted.

“Let’s go find a bar,” Murphy said.

“Didn’t you hear the man?” asked one of the card-players.

“What?” Murphy asked. “You miss your grandma already?”

“Sure,” the card-player said. “You want to dig your own grave, there’s a bar about four hundred yards to the north.” He glanced at his companion and shook his head.

“You coming?” Murphy asked Paul.

Paul hesitated. Murphy was obviously a troublemaker, but Paul needed a beer. Did they have beer out at the oilrig? It would be a shame if they didn’t, especially if he gave up this last chance to have one here.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Paul said.

“You’re smart guys,” the card-player said. He’d just won the round and was re-shuffling the cards. He was a big man with a crewcut and had the feel of a master sergeant.

Murphy scowled, and it looked like he wanted to start something. Paul recalled when they’d first been in the airport at Anchorage. Murphy had beeped every time through security. It turned out he had a metal plate in his head. He had been somewhere bad once and had been captured by Arabs. They’d held him for almost a year, abusing him in a cave. Maybe that’s why he was crazy.

Paul slapped Murphy on the arm and pointed at the door as he headed toward it. He began buttoning his coat.

When Paul opened the door, Murphy swore behind him. It was cold and snow fell out of the darkness. Paul saw lights to the north. Four hundred yards wasn’t that far. He’d drink his beer and hurry back. How much trouble could that cause?

After crunching over snow, they entered Klondike’s Rush. It was warm inside, with stools along a cedar bar with a zinc top, a mirror in back and rows of the familiar bottles.

“Home,” Murphy said. He lurched onto a stool and pulled off his gloves. “Give me a whiskey!” he shouted. “And be ready to give me another.”

Paul sat on a stool and glanced around. Except for the bartender, there were only three other people, a woman and two men. The woman had seen better years and she wore a deer-hunting hat. She also wore garish lipstick and purple eye shadow. One of the men with her had a beard and a scar running into his left eye. His narrow-faced friend had a blue parka with denim jeans.

“Who are you?” the bearded man asked.

Murphy grabbed the shot glass as the bartender, an older man, quit pouring. The ex-Army Ranger tossed it down as he swiveled around.

“We’re Blacksand,” Murphy said, with an edge to his voice. “You got a problem with that?”

The woman hunched her head as she turned toward the bearded man. He shrugged and went back to talking to her.

“Didn’t think so,” Murphy said, swiveling back to the bar. “Another,” he said. “I told you to pour me two.”

The bartender looked like he wanted to say something, but a glance into Murphy’s eyes changed the old man’s mind. “Yes, sir,” the bartender said.

Murphy gave an ugly laugh, and he shot Paul a look. “Train them fast is what I say. Let them know right away whose boss. Then they know better than to give you crap.”

The bearded man at the table glanced up, seemed to measure Murphy with his eyes and decided he didn’t want anything to do with him. The man turned his chair so the back was aimed at the bar.

“Whiskey,” Murphy said, slapping his hand on the counter.

Paul sipped his beer, watching Murphy. The beer tasted good. After that plane ride, he needed this. He was beginning to think, however, that he should stay far away from Murphy.

The door to the bar opened and in walked the big master sergeant from the shed, the card-player with the crewcut. He had his partner with him. “Party’s over,” he said. “Red Cloud wants you two back. Told us to come fetch you.”

Murphy tossed down another shot before swiveling around. “You go run to Red Cloud and tattle on us?”

Paul took a swig of beer before standing and putting a ten on the bar. “Let’s go,” he told Murphy. It had been mistake coming, Paul could see that now.

Murphy blinked at him in surprise. “You chicken?” he asked. “The bristle-top make you scared?”

A flash of heat went through Paul. He’d never liked bullies or bigmouths. His dislike of such people had led to more than a few fistfights in high school, which had led to continuation school and finally, a few nights in jail. The last time, a judge had suggested the Marines. Paul had taken the bait. No one fought fair in jail anyway, and he’d gotten tired of fighting four or five against one. He now picked up his beer and took a last swig.

“I took you for a fighter,” Murphy was saying.

Paul shrugged. He’d had enough of the ex-Army Ranger. He began buttoning his coat.

“You too, tough guy,” the master sergeant told Murphy.

Murphy gave him the bird before turning back to the bar and grabbing a fistful of peanuts. “Whiskey!” he shouted.

The bartender was at his spot at the far end of the bar. Maybe there was something about the master sergeant that kept the bartender where he was.

“I said WHISKEY!” Murphy shouted.

The master sergeant grumbled, nodded at his partner and purposely strode for Murphy. “You’re coming with us even if we have to haul you in.”

Murphy surprised everyone. The ex-Army Ranger slid off the stool and hurled his shot glass all in one motion. It was a perfect throw, catching the master sergeant between the eyes. It dropped him as his head jerked back. The master sergeant collapsed like a hunk of jelly. His partner stopped, staring at his friend. Murphy kept moving. There was a crazy look in his eyes, and he kicked the partner’s left kneecap. The man’s leg buckled under him. The partner fell as he clutched his knee, and his groans were animal-like. Murphy was still moving. The ex-Ranger was like greased death. He produced a switchblade, clicking out the metal. Kneeling by the master sergeant, Murphy grabbed him by the throat of his coat.

“I’m going to leave you a scar, tough guy.”

Before the ex-Ranger could cut the master sergeant, Paul grabbed Murphy’s wrist. He’d crossed the distance between them, recognizing a killer. You didn’t talk a killer out of hurting others when his blood was hot. Murphy looked up. The ex-Ranger had craziness in his eyes, so Paul hit him in the face. Blood spurted from the nose and Murphy’s head snapped back. Paul twisted the wrist as he slapped the back of Murphy’s hand. The switchblade clattered onto the wooden floor.

“You’re gonna die, beer-boy,” Murphy muttered.

Paul hit him a second time, harder than before. It hurt his knuckles, it gashed them, and it smeared his fingers with the Ranger’s blood. That stunned Murphy long enough for Paul to haul back and hit with a haymaker. Murphy thumped onto the floor, the back of his head knocking against wood. He was unconscious, and blood poured from his nose.

“Call Blacksand,” Paul told the bartender. The old man kept blinking at him. “Did you hear me?”

The bartender reached for the phone.

Rubbing his sore fingers, Paul sat on a stool, picking up his beer. He looked at the three men on the floor. The partner was weeping now, clutching his leg, as if it would run away if he let go.

With a tired sigh, Paul sipped his beer, deciding he might as well finish it. This was looking to be a long night, or day. He still didn’t know what time it was.

AMBARCHIK BASE, EAST SIBERIA

In the darkness of the Arctic Circle, a Leopard Z-6 Hovertank slid across the tundra. Several kilometers away, the lights of Ambarchik glittered like a prized jewel. It was a lonely outpost, one of the most godforsaken towns in the world. It was at the northern edge of the Eurasian continent, nestled against the frozen East Siberian Sea. As an arctic tern flies, the Siberian side of the Bering Strait was twelve hundred kilometers away. The Russian city of Murmansk, which was near Finland, lay three thousand six hundred kilometers to the west. Three kilometers from Ambarchik was Ambarchik Base, the third largest Chinese military facility in East Siberia.

The hovertank’s main weapon was a high-velocity 76mm cannon firing rocket-assisted shells. The cannon was self-loaded, while the hovertank’s crew of three drove the vehicle, manned the cannon and commanded. A 12.7mm machine gun in the commander’s copula provided anti-infantry support. The armor was a lightweight sandwich of ceramic/ultraluminum, with an explosive skin that helped retard shape-charged rounds. A bubble of bullet-resistant plastic over the commander’s hatch gave him some small-arms protection whenever he rode ‘heads-up.’ It also kept the hovertank’s heat from dissipating into the arctic night. Power came from a diesel Qang 2000 with a turbo ‘supercharger’ for cold-weather starts.

The Americans had nothing like the Leopard Z-6. It moved swiftly onto the pack ice, showing its greatest asset: speed.

Several kilometers later as it traveled north and farther onto the ice, the hovertank slowed and then stopped, rocking slightly as it maintained its position on its cushion of air. Slowly, the military vehicle sank as its armored skirt shuddered. It touched down as its hidden but powerful fans stopped.

Moments passed until a side-hatch opened. A heavily-bundled and short General Shin Nung squeezed through. In his awkward snow boots, he used the ladder, climbing down to the ice. He wore a fur-lined hood like a Yakut native, the Siberian cousin to the Alaskan Eskimos. The general was fifty-nine years old and a hero of the Siberian War. His armored thrust had captured Yakutsk and effectively ended the conflict.

General Nung was the commander of the coming cross-polar attack. His facial skin tingled in the cold. He had blunt features and an aggressive stare. In his youth, he had studied six long years at the Russian Military Academy in Moscow. It had been a lonely existence, and too many of the high command in China still thought of him as half-Russian. What made it worse was that he continually achieved success through his adherence to headlong attack. He had many enemies in high command, but the Chairman backed him. That was all the influence he needed.

General Nung surveyed the polar landscape, the seeming featureless pack ice that spanned the ocean all the way to Alaska.

Another man now squeezed through the hovertank’s hatch. He, too, wore arctic clothing and a hood, but was taller and much older than General Nung. He was Marshal Kao, and he was the Army Minister of the Ruling Committee, only recently arrived from Beijing. The stated reason for his visit was to speak personally with the commanding general so he could give an eyewitness report to the Chairman on the taskforce’s readiness.

The hovertank’s arc lights provided the only illumination here, as clouds hid the moon and stars.

Old Marshal Kao shivered.

That brought a contemptuous smile to General Nung’s lips. The arrogant mandarin needed to feel the cold he was sending them into. If he didn’t like the temperature, the old man should have covered his sculptured features. Nung turned away, no longer wanting to see the weakness there. Despite the marshal’s age, Kao had aesthetic features like some over-bred palace prince. Everyone knew he used botox injections to erase the lines in his face. Worse, he was known for his artistic leanings. Nung had seen some of Kao’s paintings before. He’d walked in the marshal’s house along with others. The disgusting memory still soiled him. He’d wanted to rip the paintings off the walls, open his fly and piss all over them in front of the others. Imagine, a military man dabbling with paints, with a little brush as he stroked here and touched there. It had been revolting.

How can I reason with a painting marshal? It’s impossible. Yet, for the sake of my men, I must try.

Nung breathed through his nose, feeling the cold tingle. He loved the challenge of this attack. If only these delicate types would let a military genius like him do what needed doing, he’d win Alaska for them. Boldness. Courage. Vigor. That is what won wars. That’s what had led him to capturing Yakutsk with a handful of tanks. At least the Chairman understood. Nung knew that he was uniquely qualified for the present task. He was the right man in the right place at the right time to achieve glory…for China as well as for himself.

“It’s freezing,” said Kao.

With his back to the Army Minister, Nung sneered.

You should have stayed in Beijing with your paints. Don’t come out here in the cold if you don’t want to do a soldier’s job.

“I have waited until now to inform you of another facet to your assault,” Kao said. “It is the reason I agreed to this trip onto the ice.”

General Nung turned around, facing the taller man and the hovertank.

“The Chairman fears some of the men may lose heart as they cross thousands of kilometers of ice to Alaska,” Kao said.

“My men?” asked Nung, sounding genuinely surprised. He’d been training them for months in Arctic warfare.

Marshal Kao affected a one-sided smile. It was said he practiced his mannerisms before a mirror several hours a day.

“During the assault you cannot be everywhere at once, General. Besides, the Chairman doesn’t want you shooting personnel when you’ll possibly need everyone in the taskforce to complete your mission.”

Nung bristled at the insult. He knew the painter considered himself more cultured and therefore more Chinese and superior to him. Didn’t the old man realize that they were out on the pack ice? The tankers in the hover were some of his most loyal men. The desire to break this mandarin with his bare hands…. Nung could see himself chopping a hole in the ice and sliding the marshal’s corpse into the freezing waters. He’d heard that’s what a Russian noble had once done to Rasputin, a strange political creature in the czar’s household during World War One. After putting Kao into Arctic storage, he would concoct a story how the minister had strolled over treacherous ice. That would shock those in high command.

“Commissar Yongzheng with ten operatives from East Lightning will join your taskforce,” Kao said.

“What?” Nung whispered. His fantasies dissolved as anger took over.

“The Chairman believes that morale is all important in war. The soldier whose heart remains strongest will always be the victor.”

“Does the Chairman doubt my heart?” asked Nung.

The older man stared at him, as if he had not heard the question.

“What is the meaning of sending Yongzheng and his killers with me?” Nung asked.

“The Police Minister suggested the move and the Chairman agreed.”

Blood rushed to Nung’s face. He swayed, and he flexed his gloved fingers. “Why taint an Army mission with policemen?”

“Yes, it seems unnatural. It almost seems…Russian,” Kao said. “Ah, you maintain your silence. How Chinese of you, General.”

Nung’s head swayed as if slapped. How dare this old goat say such a thing to him—to him, a hero of the Siberian War. He had been the only commanding officer to receive an Order of Mao Medallion.

“Who ended the war in Siberia?” Nung asked thickly.

“Ah, yes,” said Kao. “Your famous armor thrust to Yakutsk. Surely, you must understand that the war was winding down. You used your men to earn fame, gunning down several of your own soldiers. You hounded them in order to reach Yakutsk before Bingwen’s column.”

“Your brother-in-law Bingwen’s column,” Nung said.

“Bingwen’s near-relation to me makes no difference to the facts,” said Kao.

Nung had fought against the Army clique his entire life. He had climbed the rungs of rank despite their attempts to torpedo him. Finding it hard to control his temper, Nung asked, “Do you know why I’m commanding this mission?”

“It is obvious that you do not,” Kao said. “I know you believe yourself to be the Chairman’s pet, but I helped put you in the most miserable post I could find. Here. Who would know that the Chairman would decide on such a risky endeavor as this suicidal cross-polar—” Kao quit talking as he blinked in surprise, maybe at the boldness of his words.

“Please,” Nung said. “Tell me more. Your comments on the Chairman’s abilities tickle my ears.”

Marshal Kao straightened as he peered down at the shorter Nung. “You have your orders.”

“Yes. I’ve studied the Army plan,” Nung said. “I detected your hand everywhere. You are methodical and detailed, having us move carefully from phase to phase as we leapfrog our way to Alaska.”

“The cross-polar thrust is a matter of logistics. The pack ice and remoteness of the starting bases makes it a nightmare. It also means you lack needed numbers. But we will air-ferry you more troops and bring others from Navy submarines to reinforce you as you attack.”

“I have studied the Army plan and I find it overly cautious,” Nung said.

“Your praise makes me blush.”

General Nung looked away. Ice, darkness and cold, the marshal would have them spend weeks out on the ice. The plan as it stood was hopeless. He knew that the others couldn’t understand his brilliance. They equated manners and education with brains. He lacked their polished ways. Yet he had outshone every other general in the Siberian War. Yes, he had shot slackers. He’d even gunned down a colonel. Afterward, his men had jumped whenever he gave an order. He had the iron for hard decisions just as the great Chairman Mao had possessed. He had the will and the confidence to keep going where other men halted in confusion or fright.

Nung sighed. Without facing the prim old man, he said, “Your schemes appear beautiful in the conference chamber. But they fail to take into account the fighting soldier and his lust and joy of battle.”

“I am not a butcher. That is true.”

Nung faced the Army Minister. “Did you read my proposal?”

“Yes. It was full of grammatical errors.”

“My proposal was based on a similar historical situation. A dictator named Saddam Hussein once attempted to snatch oil-rich regions.”

“I had no idea you read history.”

“Military history,” Nung said. “After Saddam’s draining war with Iran, he wished to renege on his massive debts to Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Saddam invaded Kuwait and its oilfields. He used far too many soldiers for the attack and he failed to march far enough. He should have taken an elite force and kept going into northeastern Saudi Arabia. If he’d done so, he would have captured the majority of the Arab world’s oil wells. He could have threatened to blow up everything, and the world would have faced a massive oil crisis. That threat would have paralyzed America and kept them from building up a large Coalition force in Saudi Arabia. Instead, Saddam only went partway, grabbing Kuwait but leaving the Saudi oilfields intact. His timidity ended up losing him everything.”

Marshal Kao eyed him, and there was a look of surprise on the old man’s face. Kao pursed his lips. “Yes. I see your point.”

“Then you understand?”

“Understand what?” Kao asked.

They can see the past if someone points it out to them, but they can never see the application now. Why am I so farsighted and why are others so blind?

“I brought you out here on the pack ice and in the hovertank for a reason,” Nung said.

“I accepted the demonstration for a reason,” Kao said. “So we could speak without worrying about eavesdroppers or listening devices. Now tell me your point. I’m cold beyond belief and want to get to my plane so I can return to Beijing.”

“The Army plan is too complicated,” Nung said. “You have endless phases with engineer-built airstrips, thousand-mile-long ice-roads and hastily-constructed bases in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. Your suggested air-traffic will alert the Americans long before we reach the northern slope of Alaska. The enemy has recon satellites—”

“Forgive me for interrupting your dissertation,” Kao said. “But the Air Force has agreed to destroy the enemy reconnaissance satellites.”

Nung struggled to control his temper. “Such elaborate phases or steps will alert the Americans. They will airlift reinforcements to the oilfields before our planned approach reaches U.S. soil.”

“It is why you will need the build-up of supplies, planes, soldiers and snowtanks,” Kao said.

“No, no,” Nung said. “The plan’s very deliberateness will bring about what you most fear. We will end up fighting a war of attrition, with our main rallying points on the exposed ice. A single nuclear missile could open the ice under our feet and lose us everything.”

“Our laser-armed jets will protect you from nuclear missiles. Even now, they are being winterized so they can operate in Arctic conditions.”

“Can they protect us from a remote-guided submersible carefully maneuvered underneath us, igniting a mushroom cloud?” asked Nung.

In shock, Kao stared at Nung.

“I see you haven’t considered that,” Nung said. “It may not even take such a submersible. The laser-armed jets you’re speaking about are larger than our heavy cargo planes. It would take very special ice-runways to accommodate them for long. The planes are suitable for the continental defense of China, but I doubt their coverage in the polar Arctic.”

“There are means for thickening ice to support heavy aircraft,” Kao said.

“And the enemy submersible?” asked Nung.

“If the Americans use tactical nuclear weapons,” Kao said, “they will face heavy retaliation. They know that our strategic ballistic missile and laser defense is far superior to theirs. I do not fear their tactical nuclear weapons. What I fear is your brashness, General. If it were up to me, I would replace you. I fear that you will attempt another of your cavalry raids. The Americans are not Siberians.”

Nung seethed inside. The others called him a peasant because he didn’t paint and lacked their connections. Instead, he used his head, but they couldn’t hear him because he wasn’t a mandarin like them. He was sick of anyone telling him that Siberians weren’t Americans. They did it in an attempt to belittle his stunning armor thrust to Yakutsk.

“Men are men,” Nung said.

“Ah, that is so brilliant and so insightful. Please, repeat it so I can memorize the saying and tell it to the Chairman. I’m sure he will appreciate your aphorism.”

“Sir, this attack calls for an all-out race to the northern slope. A small force of hovertanks moving boldly and quickly can accomplish what many brigades of slower formations will never achieve. Let me grab the oilfields and mine them with explosives. I will give you victory in less than a week.”

Kao shook his head. “Hovertanks are fragile instruments. They are useless in high Arctic winds and they cannot operate on rugged ground or on slopes. What if the wind howls for a week, grounding your hovertanks? You’d run out of supplies, or we would have to airdrop you more. That would certainly alert the Americans.”

“War is a risk,” Nung said. “The bold win by accepting the risks.”

“The wise win through strategy. As the great Sun Tzu says, He wins his battles by making no mistakes.”

“I can quote the ancient sage,” Nung said. “Appear at points which the enemy must hasten to defend, march swiftly to places where you are not expected.”

“You misapply the great Sun Tzu because your judgment is tainted by your Russian education. You do not understand the Chinese way to victory. Perhaps as debilitating, you lack judgment on these matters because of your victorious thrust against demoralized and under-armed Siberians. We will use overwhelming force on the Americans.”

“Yes,” Nung said. “If they wait for each of your phases to end before the next begins.”

“General Nung, it is true that sometimes a brash plan works, but that is more a matter of luck than true military calculation. Crossing thousands of kilometers of pack ice calls for planning and logistics more than it does for wild cavalry charges. You are a fighter. I will grant you that. What works for a two-hundred kilometer thrust, however, will most certainly fail for a two-thousand kilometer attack. Therefore, to keep your Russian tendencies in cheek, Commissar Yongzheng and ten East Lightning operatives will join your command team. Yongzheng will have veto power on all your military decisions.”

“That is outrageous.”

“If you refuse such a situation,” said Kao. “Resign your commission.”

“No.”

“Then you will follow the Army plan. Combined arms will give you victory, and however distasteful it is to me, you will once again become a battlefield hero. Still, you will always know that I gave you this victory and that your way would have spelled disaster.”

General Nung looked away. A slow methodical advance across the ice—it was wrong. He knew how to win. This Commissar Yongzheng…he’d have to find a way around the policeman. It would be dangerous—

“It’s time to leave,” said Kao.

“Yes,” Nung said. He would think this through later. He would not let these over-cultured mandarins thwart him or thwart China. The time would come when he would crush them as a moth in his fist. Despite every handicap, he would find a way to win this war with élan.

“Let us return to base,” Nung said. “There is much that still needs doing.”

Kao scrutinized him before nodding and heading for the ladder.

-5-

Last Call

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

Stan Higgins rubbed his eyes as he said, “Exceptional. Use your fingers to sound out the syllables.”

The skinny high-school freshman beside him, the one hunched over a history textbook, nodded slowly. The boy’s right index finger was under the word, and the skull ring on that finger and the black-painted nails spoke volumes. The boy, his name was Nicky, could barely read, but he could name you a thousand songs. Nicky had never seen his father, and his mother only came home at night around seven from the Anchorage Fifth District Court. Juneau was the capital of Alaska, but even these days Anchorage boasted more government workers.

It was almost four p.m. and Stan had been helping Nicky since three when the last bell rang, dismissing the students for the day. There were too many like Nicky in Stan’s sixth period World History class. Seven weeks ago, there had been five students coming after school for help. Now there was just this one. Because Nicky had stuck it out, he’d become Stan’s favorite student. The various historical posters on the wall could explain the reason. The one Stan pointed to the most during the school year showed Winston Churchill holding a tommy gun and with his teeth chomped on a huge cigar. The caption below it read: Never give up, never, never, never.

The cell phone in Stan’s cargo pants vibrated. He didn’t like interrupting their sessions. Reading concentration was often difficult for these boys, especially for those who listened to music twenty-four seven. One of his rules was that his students had to take out their music-plugs while in class and after school as he tried to teach them to read.

“Just a minute,” Stan said, as he took out his cell, checking it. “I’d better take this call.”

“Sure thing, Professor,” Nicky said, who sat back with a sigh.

Stan no longer rolled his eyes when his students called him ‘Professor.’ He’d gotten used to it in the Alaskan National Guard a long time ago. He was a captain in an armor company, one of the few such companies in the State.

National Guard units never used to have tanks. That began to change years ago as the U.S. military demobilized countless formations. There had simply been too much equipment to mothball properly. So the Army had donated heavy equipment like M1A2 Abrams tanks or M2 Bradleys to various National Guard units. Alaska had a few, old vehicles carefully kept up throughout the years.

Stan was in education and he wore glasses while in the tanks. The constant vibration in them irritated his eyes while he wore contacts. So he didn’t, but used his old glasses instead. Jose Garcia, a car mechanic and his tech/gunner, had first called him Professor many years ago, and the nickname had stuck. A few years later, one of his men’s kids had called him that in class. The class had loved it, and it had quickly spread around the high school. Somehow, year after year, the nickname stuck even though he never told his students about it.

“Hello, Jose,” Stan said.

“Professor,” Jose Garcia said on the other end of the line. “You’d better get out here. A guy came into my shop a minute ago, telling me your dad’s been knocking on doors again. Your dad’s warning people the aliens are coming. It’s just a matter of time before someone calls the cops on him. And you know what that means.”

“Has he been drinking?” Stan asked with a sickening feeling in his gut. Not the aliens again—he’d carefully explained to his dad why space aliens couldn’t hurt the Earth. It had been more convincing to his dad giving him bogus reasons than trying to tell him that space aliens didn’t exist. At least, Stan had thought so at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“I know it ain’t my place,” Jose said, “but you need to get him into a clinic or something. The cops have it out for your dad.”

No, not the cops, Stan thought, but Sergeant Jackson.

“What street?” Stan asked.

“Ah…Fifth and Michael,” Jose said. “I think you’d better hurry. From the sounds of it, he’s been at it for a while.”

The sinking feeling in Stan grew. He wasn’t aware of it, but his shoulders slumped, and suddenly he felt the long school day. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep.

“Thanks, Jose,” Stan said. “I appreciate the call.”

“Hey, Professor, we’re the Guard. We stick together no matter what.”

It was silly, but the words steadied Stan. It felt as if someone had his back, because someone actually did.

He had two different worlds of friends. There were his intellectual buddies from school and those from the Guard, usually working class guys who drank beer and liked to hunt. Both worlds had good people, but there was no doubt they were different. Stan had theorized to his wife about the two. The first world talked about ideas. The second seemed to live them. Stan liked to think of himself as an ancient Greek or an ancient Athenian from before the Peloponnesian War. The great playwright Aeschylus had fought in the world-changing Battle of Marathon. Socrates, the philosopher, had fought at the Battles of Potidaea, Amphipolis and Delium and he’d been lauded for his heroism. In that time, even exceptionally brilliant men had lived whole lives, not the fractured existence that seemed to be people’s lot in post-industrial America.

Stan pocketed the cell phone, told Nicky that they were stopping early today and urged him to use the reader he’d loaned him. One of the tricks to teaching boys to read was helping them find material they were genuinely interested in. Too often, the school-selected reading material was too dated or too tame for a young man. Too many boys were bored sick with school, especially because of the stress the schools placed upon keeping things non-competitive. In Stan’s opinion, boys thrived under competition, and they wanted action in a story, the more the better. Why did people think Hulk comics still sold so well?

After saying goodbye to Nicky, who pressed his music-plugs into his ears and slouched away, Stan locked his room. He hurried to the faculty parking lot. There was snow on the sidewalks, dark clouds above and gloom all around. Stan wore a faded Alaskan National Guard hat, a heavy coat and boots. A little under six-foot tall, Stan fought a constant battle against a protruding gut, although he wasn’t fat like most of his friends. He’d been 165 as a high-school senior and a hard-tackling safety on the football squad. Now at forty-three he kept under 200 pounds. He lifted weights three times a week and played basketball against Bill Harris, the pastor of the Rock Church.

Stan had a feeling that he wasn’t going to get to lift today. It was a legs day, or evening. He only did legs once a week. He was exhausted the next day after a good legs workout.

It was cold in the old Land Rover, and after turning on the ignition, he waited for the vehicle to warm up. Soon thereafter, he pulled out onto Pacifica Avenue and headed toward Jose’s shop. There was an occasional knock in the engine. It definitely needed work again. It had over one hundred thousand miles and could maybe last another twenty thousand before an overhaul.

Most people these days drove crappy little box-cars and ancient pickups from the 2000s. They repaired them repeatedly. America only had a handful of car factories compared to the old days of glory.

While tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs, Stan thought about buying a rebuilt engine. It might be a good experience for him to install it. He needed more mechanical know how. It would certainly make him a better tank commander afterward.

As he passed Oscar’s Donuts, Stan shook his head. When would that ever matter? Why did they even have tanks in Alaska, especially outdated relics like the Abrams M1A2? In the old days before the Sovereign Debt Depression, America used to deploy National Guard units in their ongoing foreign wars. But that had been over twenty years ago. Except for the Grain Union, America was hard-core isolationist these days.

Pulling to a stop before a red light on Ninth Street, Stan rubbed his eyes. He needed to take out his contacts. Were there glasses in the rover?

Leaning over, Stan opened the glove compartment. His mouth dropped open as he saw his .44 Magnum sitting there in its holster. His heart tightened in his chest. There were severe laws against having a gun on school grounds, which included the parking lot. How could he have forgotten to take it out? Did he want to lose his job and go to jail?

Behind him, a car honked.

Stan jerked up, looked back and saw a woman giving him the finger behind her windshield. Blushing, Stan glanced at the green light. He gave the rover gas and it lurched like a jumping salmon. The big magnum fell out of the glove compartment and thumped heavily onto the floor.

Now his eyes really hurt. Stan pulled to a curb, stopping beside a Burger Palace. A girl was leaning out of the drive-up window, handing a bag and a soft drink to a young guy in a pickup. Blinking too much, Stan extracted his contacts and put them into his solution bottle. Then he dug out a pair of glasses and put them on. One of these days, he was going to get laser eye-surgery, but it wasn’t today. He picked up the .44 and shoved it back into the glove compartment, shutting it hard.

As he pulled back onto the street, his cell phone vibrated. He dug it out of his pant’s pocket, and said, “Hello?”

“Honey, are you almost done?”

It was his wife, Susan. Glancing at the rover’s clock, showed Stan it was 4:21. Oh, right, it was Wednesday. It was a growth group meeting at the Boone’s tonight. He and his family went to church at the Rock. The growth group meetings discussed Bill’s latest sermon. Normally, Stan appreciated the Wednesday evening meetings. Not only did they study the Bible there, but they also got to know the other people at the church better. It was one thing looking at the back of a person’s head during the service and maybe shaking the person’s hand afterward and quite another sitting in a home drinking coffee and arguing about what the pastor’s sermon had really meant. Stan liked the discussions and he liked the deeper connections with others. People were far too divided these days, lonely islands with too little glue holding them together as a society. Stan had vowed more than once after watching too many football games and sitcoms in a day to quit vegging on the couch.

“Stan?” his wife asked over the cell phone.

“Ah…” he said, wondering if he should mention his dad. His wife had cooked the meal tonight. It was their turn to bring supper to the Boone’s home. The meeting started at six-thirty and it was all the way across town. Stan lived on the outskirts of Anchorage, and the Boone’s house was on the other side. The crisscrossing back and forth would add maybe an hour, if he were lucky. How long would his dad take?

“Is something wrong, honey?” his wife asked.

“Dad’s been drinking again,” Stan blurted. “He’s been acting up.”

Susan got quiet, which was a bad sign. “…you missed last week’s growth group meeting,” she finally said.

“I want to come,” he said. “You know that.”

“What’s your dad done this time?” she asked tiredly.

“I’ll be quick, honey. I just need to talk to him, get him settled down.”

“You know I hate going to the Boone’s alone.”

“I know,” said Stan, with the ache in his eyes a light throb.

“It’s an interesting topic tonight,” she said. “You told me so yourself after the sermon.”

“Honey, I want to go. But I need to help my dad first. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, but in a quiet tone that indicated it was anything but.

Susan was the greatest. Stan loved his wife, and she had been longsuffering with his dad. The old man used to stay at their house. That’s where the real trouble had started. They had two girls, ten and seven, and his father’s explosive cursing and occasional nudity had been too much. It had caused the biggest fight of their marriage and a week with Stan sleeping on the couch. Susan’s tears had finally convinced Stan he had to tell his dad to move out. It had been in the middle of winter, and his dad had been allowed at the Homeless Center for three weeks until they kicked him out there. Jail time had seen him through the coldest part of the year. Unfortunately, his dad had never done well with the police. Stan had never gotten the story straight from his dad, but he knew his father had smeared his own crap on Sergeant Jackson. There had been a beating afterward, and Stan had sunk fifteen thousand on lawyer’s fees against the Police Department for brutality.

No one had been happy with him for that, not the police, his wife or his dad, who said he could fight his own battles. The police had finally made a bargain with his lawyer. Stan had dropped the police brutality charge and his father had been released from jail. For two months, his father either had remained sober or had only taken a few drinks a day.

Those ‘good days’ were over. His dad had started drinking heavily again, and now his weird side was shining through even stronger than before. In their way of thinking, the police had given his dad several breaks. Those breaks might soon be ending, especially if Sergeant Jackson had anything to say about it.

“I’ll make it home in time to go to the Boone’s,” Stan said.

“You promise?” Susan asked.

“I promise to try my hardest.”

“Okay,” she said, even quieter than before. “Bye honey.”

“I love you,” he said.

She hung up before saying, ‘I love you,’ back. That let Stan know she was hurt and probably what his daughters called ‘boiling inside.’ He couldn’t blame Susan, and he didn’t, but it was his dad. He had to help him. The Third Commandment said to honor your parents, and it was the first of the Ten Commandments with a promise. It said that it would go well with a man who honored his parents. It also said that he would live a long life.

Thinking about his wife and her expectations, Stan pushed his foot on the accelerator. It was probably wiser risking a traffic ticket so he could get to his dad first. It wouldn’t help his insurance rates if he got a ticket and Susan might possibly complain about the cost of it, but this was his dad and he was the old man’s only son.

***

Stan parked beside a curb. He turned off the engine, jumped out of the rover and hurried after his dad.

Mack Higgins was big, and even at sixty-seven he was imposing. He had wild white hair jutting every which way. Worse, he was shirtless, with his ancient denim jacket tied around his waist. Stan’s dad was like a polar bear, with bulky arms, a barrel-like torso and seldom affected by the cold. Also like a polar bear, Mack had thick white hair on his chest, belly and much of his back. He wore a gold chain around his neck and had fought a long time ago in Afghanistan, being a colonel in a light infantry battalion. Mack had led from the front, and Stan had heard many stories where his dad drew his sidearm. Colonel Higgins had empted his share of magazines, as his dad put it, into “no-good Allah-loving Taliban terrorists.”

Afghanistan had done something to his dad. Colonel Mack Higgins’s hard drinking had begun there. After his retirement, the drinking had definitely become full-blown alcoholism. Watching his dad’s mental decline had convinced Stan of several things. Firstly, killing men did something to you. Or maybe it was seeing your friends die, blown apart by a roadside bomb. Secondly, too much alcohol over long periods pickled a man’s brain. Hadn’t it changed Alexander the Great? Stan had read a book called Alexander the Great: the Invisible Enemy. It had chronicled the Macedonian’s decline in health and his growing inability to control his temper through increasingly hard drinking. Finally, hard knocks to the head were very bad. Once it had occurred in a bar fight. The second time, Sergeant Jackson had struck his dad over the head with his baton. Mack Higgins had a visible dent in his skull now, about three inches above his left eye.

“Dad!” called Stan.

Mack Higgins lumbered down the cracked and uneven sidewalk. Large pine trees shadowed the snowy yards and the street, and their roots had caused, over time, what looked like quake damage to the sidewalk.

This was an older area of Anchorage. Here, the two-story homes were built so the sides almost touched. Each had a garage and most had twenty-year old or older shrubbery and trees.

Stan glanced over his shoulder. He saw several sets of people either standing in their yard or on their porch, watching his dad. Some grinned at one another, laughing. Others scowled. Odds were someone had called the police. The best thing was to get his dad out of here fast.

“Dad, hold up,” Stan called.

Mack Higgins never even paused. His hearing wasn’t what it used to be, but it was still good. His dad was probably ignoring him again.

“Colonel Higgins, sir,” Stan called.

The big old man with the hairy torso stopped then and slowly shuffled around. The bleary, unfocused eyes told their own story, and the alcoholic reek only added to the tale. Mack Higgins swayed. He had to be really drunk to do that.

“What do you want, boy?” Mack Higgins slurred. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir.”

“I have to warn the people,” Mack said, as he unsteadily raised one of his arms, indicating the tract homes.

“Is this about the space aliens?” asked Stan.

Mack squinted and he lowered his head to peer more closely at Stan. “Who told you that?”

Stan licked his lips. Lying was wrong, and lying to your dad was even worse. He also hated helping his dad believe his fantasies, but arguing wasn’t going to work today. The cops were sure to show up soon, and the two of them had to be out of here by then. In this frame of mind, his dad might take a swing at one of the cops.

“Uh…I got a phone call,” Stan said, temporizing his lie with some truth.

Mack blinked his unfocused eyes, making him seem lost and confused. Lines appeared on his forehead. It helped highlight the dent in his skull, the one that sank into his hairline. “Oh,” he finally grunted. “Someone here phoned you. Good. The word is spreading. You take the other side of the street. We don’t have much time before the aliens invade.”

Stan took a deep breath. “…Dad, I think the aliens have allies.”

The lines in the broad forehead deepened. Slowly, Mack Higgins nodded. “Benedict Arnolds, huh? I should have known. The aliens are cunning, but they’re never going to conquer America. We’re red, white and blue, son, especially in Alaska.”

“The aliens want you in jail, sir. They want to slow you down.”

The bleary-eyed squint narrowed. “How did you come to learn this?”

Stan noticed his dad’s big hands tightening into fists. He had to be careful how he worded this. His dad had told him before that the aliens were shape-shifters, able to take on human appearances. Stan had seen this look before. It meant Mack Higgins was getting ready to fight. They had to scram fast, or the cops would pull their tasers on the big man and shock him into submission.

“Colonel Higgins, sir, I believe the aliens have compromised the police department.”

His dad snarled a curse. “I’ve taken that as a given from the beginning. What you’re saying is something else, isn’t it?”

“Ah…yes.”

“Right,” his dad said. “You’re telling me the police are willing to move openly now against the citizenry. It’s time to arm ourselves and fight back.”

“Hold on!” said Stan, alarmed.

Mack Higgins took a menacing step closer, the knuckles of his fists whitening because he clenched his fingers so tightly.

As his dad did that, a police cruiser turned onto the street. Stan glanced at the approaching squad car, and with growing despair, he spotted Sergeant Jackson behind the wheel. Sensing more than seeing his dad, Stan turned back in time as the old colonel swung at him. It was a slow punch, and Stan evaded by stepping back. It made his dad stagger, and then bump against him. The reek of alcohol and his dad’s unwashed body was strong. Stan dearly wished he could bring his dad back to normality. Colonel Higgins had been a strong man, a good man and one full of insights. It was painful seeing his dad in this condition.

The police cruiser’s siren made a loud, piercing noise before the sound quit. Then the cruiser was pulling up along the curb.

Mack cursed under his breath, adding, “You brought reinforcements, huh?”

“Don’t you understand?” Stan asked. “I’m your son, damnit.”

“My son’s a churchgoer,” said Mack, “he doesn’t swear. Now let me go!” His dad grappled with him, slow motion using some of the judo-holds he’d taught him as a kid. Despite his dad’s age and drunkenness, Stan barely kept himself from being flipped onto the snow. Mack Higgins weighed an easy two-eighty and was still strong.

A car door slammed.

Stan looked up as Sergeant Jackson approached. Jackson was a big man, although not quite as big as Colonel Higgins, but with more gut. The officer wore a flak-vest underneath his jacket, had a thick black belt with cuffs, gun and a dangling nightstick. Jackson’s belt creaked like a horse saddle. One hand rested on the sleeve of his holster. The other was on the rubber-grip of his nightstick.

Jackson asked, “You causing trouble, old man?”

“No trouble, officer,” Stan said. He tried to remember that his dad had once thrown his own crap onto Jackson in jail.

Mack Higgins slowly glanced from Jackson to Stan. “I get it,” he slurred. “You’re playing clean cop, stinky cop.”

“You’re coming with me,” Jackson said.

Stan almost slipped on the icy sidewalk as he stepped in front of his dad. “I’ll take him home, officer.”

“Not today you won’t,” Jackson said.

“Out of my way,” Mack said, taking Stan by the shoulders and trying to shove him aside.

Stan twisted and grappled with his dad. “Back off,” he whispered. “Let me deal with this. Please, Dad, I’m begging you.”

“You’re one of them,” Mack whispered, blowing fumes into Stan’s face.

“Don’t you know your own son?”

Mack Higgins frowned, and for a moment, his unfocused eyes focused. “Stan?” he asked.

“Go sit in my rover, would you, please?” Stan asked.

His dad nodded slowly as his grip slackened.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Jackson said.

Mack started to turn to face Jackson.

Stan gripped his dad’s arms. “Ignore him,” he whispered. “Let me talk to the man.”

“He’s a Benedict Arnold,” Mack whispered.

“Do it for me,” Stan said, “and I’ll take you to supper later. You have to be hungry.”

“I am,” Mack said, sounding surprised. “You’ll buy me roast beef?”

“Gladly,” Stan said.

Ex-Colonel Higgins released his son and headed for the Land Rover, never looking back as Sergeant Jackson shouted at him.

Stan stepped toward the policeman with his arms hanging down and hands open, palms forward. “Can I have a word with you, officer?”

Jackson unsnapped his holster.

“He’s going to sit in my jeep,” Stan said.

Jackson’s grabbed the butt of his gun. “I order you to halt!” he shouted at Mack.

Mack Higgins opened the passenger-side door and squeezed into the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Sergeant, can we make a deal?” Stan asked.

Jackson glanced at Stan. “Does your deal mean you’re offering me money?”

Stan shook his head.

“Do your dad a favor,” Jackson said. “Tell him to step out of the car. He’s about to be arrested.”

“Look at my dad. He’s sitting quietly in my vehicle. The problem is solved—if there ever was a problem to begin with.”

“Your dad has been hammering on doors, telling people space aliens are coming.”

“Is that a crime?”

“It is when you refuse to leave the premises and make threats to the homeowners.”

“My dad has left.”

Jackson stared at Stan. “Do I have to pull your dad out of the car?”

“You’re missing your chance. Do you know that?”

“Meaning what?” Jackson asked.

“That if you arrest my father on some minor charge like knocking on doors about space aliens, you’re risking the judge throwing it out of court because it’s too funny. That would make it easier for me to press harassment charges.”

Jackson kept staring.

“Why not wait and try to catch my dad on something serious?” Stan asked. “Why not let the threat of your doing that trouble me.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“I think I can change my dad before you find something really serious to charge him with.”

“He’ll never change,” Jackson said.

No, because you beat the old man on the head with a baton, Stan thought to himself. You flipped a switch in there and broke it, and now my dad will never be normal again.

“Go ahead then,” said Stan. “Arrest him, and we’ll start the review process. I’m sure it will go in your favor this time.”

Jackson glanced at Mack Higgins, who sat quietly in the Land Rover. Jackson looked at the watching people. Many had left already, going inside. The nearest were making jokes at Mack’s expense and they were laughing good-naturedly.

Jackson snapped his holster shut. He shrugged. “I’ll give you this one. Space aliens. First I need to warn him, though.” Jackson headed toward the rover.

Stan followed, deciding he’d have to bring his dad home with him tonight. Then he’d have to figure out a way to keep his dad off the streets. Susan would be upset. But what choice did he have?

Before Stan could worry about it, Mack opened his door. The old man grinned crazily, with the .44 Magnum in his grip and aimed at Sergeant Jackson.

“Dad,” whispered Stan.

Mack Higgins stood and used his thumb to click the hammer all the way back. That rotated the cylinder and showed the visible bullets in each chamber.

Jackson had halted. The police officer moved his lips, but no sounds issued.

“Benedict Arnolds are filth under my feet,” Mack declared. “The aliens will never capture Earth. Never, do you hear me?”

“Dad, stop,” Stan said. “Put the gun down.”

Mack glanced at him, and the .44 barrel was now aimed at him.

It made Stan queasy. He was a finger-twitch away from lying on the snow dead. Why had he forgotten to put the gun away? It shouldn’t have been in the glove compartment in the first place.

“Dad,” Stan whispered. “It’s me, your son.”

Mack cocked his head.

“I’m ordering you—” Jackson managed to say.

Mack aimed the .44 at the police officer again, stopping the flow of words.

Stan knew it was crazy, but he started walking toward his dad. Colonel Higgins had killed his share of enemy combatants in Afghanistan. The old man was more than capable of killing Sergeant Jackson.

“Dad, don’t shoot. It will be murder. Set down the gun, okay?”

“You alien-loving traitor,” Mack told Jackson.

“No!” Stan shouted, and he rushed his dad.

Mack aimed at Stan, the trigger-finger seemed to squeeze, and then something entered those drunken eyes. Was it a moment of normality? Whatever it was, Mack hurled the .44 away. The big revolver hit the snowy ground and discharged with a thunderous boom.

People screamed. The bullet smashed into a nearby pine and half-naked Mack Higgins stared dully at Sergeant Jackson. There were two prongs in Mack’s chest, taser prongs, with wires trailing back to Jackson’s taser. As the old man chucked the gun, Jackson madly clawed out his taser and fired. Suddenly, Mack bellowed in pain, and he crumpled onto the snow, thrashing.

A second later, a pale Jackson took his thumb off the switch.

Stan’s shoulders slumped as Jackson took out his handcuffs. Now his dad had gone and done it. What made it worse was his dad peering up at him from the snow, forlorn and confused. There had to be something Stan could do to help his dad, but Stan had no idea what it was.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna Chen headed the China Desk for the Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor for President Clark. At the moment, she was in her cubicle in the West Wing of the White House. She cradled a phone against her shoulder as she spoke with a friend in the NSA, the National Security Agency. The agency had nothing to do with the National Security Advisor, Colin Green. Green advised the President, the NSA was an intelligence gathering organization.

While she was on the phone, Anna jotted notes, puzzled by her friend’s tone and that he hadn’t yet told her something she didn’t already know. In other words, why had he called?

“How about lunch, Anna?” asked Alfredo Diaz.

Anna frowned thoughtfully. She was a petite Chinese-American. She had luxuriously dark hair, which she wore up in a severe librarian’s bun. In high school, at her mother’s insistence, Anna had reluctantly entered a teenage beauty contest. She had won it, moved up to the finals and then eventually found herself the teenage beauty queen of Iowa back in 2013. Soon thereafter, she had been the third runner-up in the Teenage Miss America Pageant and had never been able to live it down.

Her mother still worried about such things. Florence Chen called at least three times a week, telling her about yet another bachelor to meet. Anna had lost count of the number of computer dating services her mother had enrolled her in. The official swimsuit photo of her Teenage Miss America Pageant always ensured her countless email proposals and endless texts.

At thirty-six, Anna was still slender and a stunning beauty. Because of her position and for a variety of reasons she never admitted to herself, Anna wore fake glasses, kept her hair up in an unflattering style and dressed ultra-conservatively. Anna liked men, but she had a terrible fault. She was smart to an intimidating degree and more than anything else, she hated acting dumb. In Harvard, she had been president of the chess club and had majored in Chinese History. She’d always won the highest marks not only in each class but also in every paper and in every test that she took. During her four years at Harvard and afterward as well, she had forever been picking up new skills. One year it was piano playing. The next she studied body kinetics and body language. After that, it had been stargazing. She could name eighty-three stars by memory, pointing each one out in the night sky.

She was gifted in looks, ability and drive, but Anna Chen was supremely unhappy. She was fairly certain it was because she didn’t know how to fall in love. Why otherwise couldn’t she find a man? She might have bought a dog or a cat as compensation, but she was highly allergic to both. She’d dated half a dozen times since Harvard and either had been bored or had been forced to use defense techniques she’d learned to fend off the I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer suitor. Her unhappiness didn’t directly show on her face, but she seldom smiled and never indulged in jokes, pranks or random silliness. She had written the definitive tome on present China and its policies, Socialist-National China, and had taught at Harvard for a time. But she had found life there too tame. Then one of her old professors had entered Presidential service, asking her to be his assistant. She’d accepted. Unfortunately, he’d been asked to retire after the first year. Afterward, Anna had taken his place.

Presidential service in the shark-like environment of political D.C. suited her. During his terms, President Clark had jury-rigged the country’s domestic problems well enough that now he took timid steps in international affairs. The President was considered a dove. For election reasons, he wanted to buff up that image. After reading a summary on a popular historical novel, Continental Soldier, Clark had told his image-makers that he wanted to be viewed as a Don’t-Tread-On-Me kind of leader.

“I’d like the nickname, ‘the Snake’,” he’d said. That was because of the old Revolutionary flag with the snake symbol on it. Continental Soldier had made a great deal about that flag.

Anna could have told the President the nickname wouldn’t help him with the Hispanic vote. It was the critical piece to his reelection puzzle. The pundits said he needed to capture at least forty-two percent of the Hispanic vote if he hoped to have a chance at electoral victory. That wasn’t completely accurate, of course. In her spare time, Anna had figured out a way for Clark to win with only thirty-seven percent of the Hispanic vote. It all depended on California and Texas, the most important and heavily Hispanic States. But Clark’s reelection wasn’t Anna’s primary concern.

As the Chinese expert, she was supposed to figure out what was going on over there. Had Deng Fong gained enough personal power to broker a deal on his own? Or had Deng simply been a mouthpiece for the ailing Chairman? According to what the Third Assistant had told her, the President and the National Security Advisor had been second-guessing the Secretary of State’s decision in Sydney for days.

“Did we undercut Deng?” National Security Advisor Green had asked the Third Assistant several days ago. The assistant had related the story to Anna five times already. Here in Washington, proximity to power was the measure of worth, and the amount of time one spent with the President and his closest advisors. Because of the President’s increasing interest in foreign affairs, the National Security Advisor had become more important, and that had increased Anna’s importance.

She now paused in the phone conversation as she cradled the receiver under her chin. She’d underlined the word lunch as she waited for Alfredo Diaz of the NSA to speak again. She wasn’t worried that Alfredo was trying to hit on her, as he was a homosexual.

“Let’s go to lunch, Anna,” Alfredo said over the phone, “somewhere loud and obnoxious. With good food, of course.”

Anna underlined lunch again. She understood now. Because he worked in the NSA, Alfredo was worried their line was tapped. Part of the job over there was using sophisticated means—satellites mainly—to eavesdrop on foreign and domestic enemies. People seemed to worry most about what they themselves did or dealt with. Therefore, liars seemed most worried about other liars. She’d read a study before that said some off-duty police officers took their gun with them when they went outside to empty the trash. Dealing with muggers and thieves all day gave them a darker worldview than a software engineer, say, who probably worried more about identity theft.

“Do you know of a good place to eat that fits your description?” Anna asked.

“You pick it,” Alfredo said promptly.

“How about Herod’s by the University Mall?” she said.

“Herod’s,” Alfredo said. “Yes, that’s perfect. Can you meet me in an hour?”

“Make it an hour and half,” she said.

“You’re beautiful, my love. I’ll reserve a table for us next to the band.”

“Are you sure I’ll like the music?”

“I’m very sure,” Alfredo said, sounding serious now. “You must come, yes?”

“An hour and a half,” Anna said. “Bye.” She immediately hung and therefore missed his goodbye, if he’d given one.

Anna frowned at her notepad. What did Alfredo want to tell her that was so important he couldn’t speak about it over the phone? She tapped the pad with her pen, deciding she’d better summon Tanaka.

Her boss didn’t like it when she went places without any security. He recognized that Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor didn’t make him a primary target, or those working for him. But he’d told her more than once that she was a special case, and Anna was quite certain her boss meant it as a compliment. He probably wanted a date with her.

If there weren’t some merit to what he’d said, she’d have declined the protection. The Aztlan separatists seemed to have lost their fire recently, but the incidence of kidnapping and often the execution of government people had risen all over the world. It wasn’t just an American problem. At this point in history, the world seemed hell-bent on continuing to fracture into smaller and smaller national entities. There wasn’t a Great Britain anymore. Instead, it was England, Wales and Scotland, each a separate nation. The favored tactic of many separatist organizations was kidnapping someone officially important. They did it in order to gain a platform for broadcasting their demands and, Anna believed, to intimidate government personnel.

Picking up the phone, Anna decided to play it safe. Besides, Tanaka made her feel better in the city, which was a welfare jungle seething with violence. Her mother had told her many years ago that men wanted her body, and would do outrageous things to acquire it. Anna could often hear her mother’s scolding voice in her head whenever she walked the streets alone. An hour and a half, she’d need the time to prepare her security and run a quick check on Herod’s, Alfredo and the safest route to the mall. These days, with so many people out of work and looking for money, it paid to prepare.

***

The big band music crashed through the dining area of Herod’s. The musicians wore glittering suits as they played their instruments in the alcove. Overhead, massive, slowly rotating chandeliers added to the ambiance. Herod’s was one of the posh spots of the capital. Waiters in tails took the orders. Cocktail waitresses wearing strings of sequins brought the drinks. Because it was the 2030s, a huge fad had developed on the East Coast for the 1930s. Nostalgia for the first Depression was fashionable and growing.

Anna wore a pants suit that did nothing to heighten her beauty. She still wore glasses, her hair in a bun and used makeup to dampen the smoothness of her skin.

Tanaka moved ahead of her. The security agent wore a slick suit and dark sunglasses. There was a gun in his jacket. His hair was greased back and he had stern features, an expert in personal security. Anna liked him because he hardly ever spoke and never offered her an opinion on anything.

Many of the higher government officials hired their own security these days in 2032, gunmen bought on the cheap. Anna’s boss the National Security Advisor kept more guards than average, as he was a rich man. With the state of the economy, it was relatively easy to find competent men.

“You brought your pet goon!” Alfredo shouted over the noise.

Tanaka didn’t even glance at the NSA man sitting at a small table to the immediate left of the alcove. Tanaka glanced around, possibly examining the various tables and their occupants, and then he bent near Anna’s ear.

“I’ll wait outside the dining room,” Tanaka said in a deep voice, his hot breath blowing against her skin.

A shiver ran down Anna’s spine from his voice, but she clamped down on any outer emotions. She nodded as Tanaka turned and strode away. Other security men always pulled out her chair for her. Tanaka had never offered once. She wondered why, and she was surprised that it nettled her. She even glanced back at him as he moved gracefully through the crowd. He was like a panther.

“Are you troubled?” Alfredo asked.

Anna features tightened as she pulled out her chair, sat down and picked up the menu. Like everything else here, it was elegant in overdone art deco.

“The french fries are to die for,” Alfredo said.

Anna lowered her menu. “You order. Make it something light, though.”

Alfredo motioned to a waiter. The dining area was packed with millionaires, lobbyists, important bloggers, ambassadors and Congressmen with daughter-aged companions.

Anna’s NSA official was thin and balding, with a narrow mustache. He wore a black suit and tie in a neo-nineteen-thirties fashion. Alfredo Diaz was good at his job, was a Harvard graduate and chess club member, and he had voted for President Clark. Several times, he’d alerted Anna to potentially explosive information, which she had passed on to the Third Assistant. Once, Anna had received a commendation signed by the President for it, handed to her by the National Security Advisor.

The problem of government leaks had intensified throughout the years with spies both foreign and domestic. Many of those spies were embedded within the bureaucracy. Years ago, Alfredo had dabbled with Aztlan separatism. Aztlan was the name for former Mexican territory now belonging to the United States: Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and California. Alfredo had told Anna once that the situation in Mexico had changed his mind.

Mexico had come under heavy Chinese influence. Because of that, the country had exploded with cheap factories and cheaper labor. There was no minimum wage as Mexico exploited its labor with help from Chinese advisors. The economy had grown rapidly, but the wealth distribution had become more uneven. It had been one of the reasons for the civil war. Alfredo had decided to stick with the peaceful government, realizing he didn’t want to live in a country where the rich needed to hire permanent guards. A few times since his awakening—as he’d put it—he’d helped pass Trojan horse information to the leaders of Aztlan. They’d been poison pills that had suppressed some of their primary terrorist cells. Alfredo definitely didn’t want civil war here.

Anna and Alfredo now spoke about the latest Broadway play, sipped wine, nibbled on french fries—they were fantastic—and fell silent as each ate his entrée. Anna had sautéed mushrooms and a half order of ribs. Alfredo devoured a sirloin steak. Neither wanted dessert, although both agreed they’d like a cup of coffee.

“I want mine black,” Anna told the waiter, who bowed at the waist to show he’d received the information.

“French cream for me,” Alfredo said.

Soon, each sipped coffee as the band played a newly fashionable Benny Goodman number.

“Is this going to be on my tab?” Anna asked.

Alfredo smiled as he clicked his coffee cup onto its saucer. “You’re paying because I have this.” He slid a memory stick across the table.

Anna glanced at the tiny black object before opening her purse and sliding it into a side pocket. Then she gave Alfredo a significant glance.

“What do you know about the destruction of Platform Seven?” Alfredo asked.

“The Shop experts believe CHKR-57 high explosives were used,” she said. “I suppose that’s why the report was forwarded to me. CHKR-57 is of Chinese make.”

Alfredo used his napkin to wipe sweat from his forehead. “The search and rescue workers have discovered a Chinese corpse. The corpse was carrying a TOZ-2.”

“A TOZ-2 underwater pistol,” Anna said. “Those are issued to White Tiger Commandos.” She frowned. “Wait a minute. I glanced at the search and rescue reports. There was never any mention about a TOZ-2. It certainly isn’t in the news.”

Alfredo glanced both ways before he leaned across the table. “The search and rescue people who found the body have been quarantined.”

“What?”

“I heard the order,” Alfredo said.

“You intercepted it?”

He looked down. “I got carried away,” he whispered. “There was no one else at my station, which is unusual but it happens more often than people realize. I kept monitoring the conversation and it became increasingly more interesting.”

Anna became thoughtful. “You have strict policies concerning who and what a NSA officer listens to. You’ve just admitted to a serious Federal crime. They could put you away…maybe forever, for what you’ve just admitted doing.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Like a shy boy caught stealing, Alfredo looked at her. “I think the President has decided to cover this one up.”

“Why would you believe that?”

“I heard a Presidential order. It went to a Secret Service detail, with orders to bring the admiral in charge of the S-and-R operation to Washington for a briefing.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Alfredo shook his head. “The Secret Service detail was given top secret orders to reroute the flight and detain the admiral and the entire S-and-R Team in a lonely facility on Federal land in Nevada.”

Anna felt cold inside, never doubting Alfredo for a moment. He was good at what he did. One of the reasons she didn’t doubt was that the election was near. Sometimes presidents did strange things to win an election. She needed to study Alfredo’s data. It was hot, and she had to make sure no one caught her reading it. She opened her purse to hunt for her plastic. It was time to leave. Then she noticed Alfredo, the fear in his eyes.

Anna reached across the table and touched one of his hands. The skin was cold, and it felt clammy.

“I’m worried,” Alfredo whispered.

She patted his hand. “Don’t be. I’m going to figure this out, but it might be wise if we don’t see each other for a while.”

“I understand. I don’t want to end up in that lonely base in Nevada. And thank you, Anna. I knew you were the person I should tell.”

Anna hardly heard. She wanted to get to work and study the data.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

Stan found Bill in his garage, working on the family car. It was the only vehicle the pastor owned. Few people had more than one car or truck these days. Like most of the homes on the street, it was over thirty years old and showed it in many subtle ways. Paint and repairs could only hide so much. Anchorage had a rundown feeling, with too many vacant lots and old, deserted buildings.

“You should take that to my friend’s shop,” Stan said, walking into the garage.

Bill was hunkered under the hood. “I’d like to,” he said, “but I can’t afford it right now.”

Leaning on the fender, Stan looked at the engine. There was rust in places, and the parts looked worn. “It wasn’t like this when we were kids,” he said.

Bill wore greasy overalls, with a wrench in his hand as he unscrewed a bolt.

“Did you hear about my dad?” Stan asked.

Bill looked up, searching Stan’s face. “Oh-oh, what happened?”

Stan shook his head. He didn’t have enough extra cash for bail. His dad—

“Does this have anything to do with Sergeant Jackson?” Bill asked.

Stan blew out his breath and began to tell Bill what had happened the other day.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna had a high capacity for work, for compiling data, absorbing the data and reaching conclusions. Her book Socialist-Nationalist China had made it onto the bestseller lists for just those reasons.

She had spent a long day in the West Wing after studying Alfredo’s memory chip. Shop files on China, secret memos and several key blog reports had each given her more information. That night at home, she’d studied and correlated various details. She was like a spider spinning a web, trying to capture the reason for the Presidential order to intern the S&R Team.

The next day in the West Wing, she turned on her computer and continued her line of inquiry. After sifting through reports, downloading more, reading and thinking, she tried to access a critical Shop file. The data was blocked. She used her override code, and was surprised to find that blocked, too.

She tapped her fingers on the computer. Taking a breath, she tried a different code, one she’d seen on the Third Assistant’s desk several months ago. It had been a momentary glance seen upside down. The Third Assistant had swept the paper into his top drawer, but Anna had a nearly perfect photographic memory.

She typed in the code and waited. Her screen flashed, and she was afraid the entire system had crashed. Then she was in the Shop file. Soon she was studying top-secret satellite info on Ambarchik Base, East Siberia. What she found frightened her.

She made a call ninety minutes later. “Dr. Blanco, please.”

“Can I ask whose calling?” asked the woman on the other end.

“Tell him it’s Anna. Tell him the time has come.”

“Excuse me?”

“Several years ago he promised I could ask his counsel when I found something….”

Anna hesitated to say more. She’d followed Dr. Blanco to D.C. and onto the National Security Advisor’s staff. After Dr. Blanco’s forced retirement and on his recommendation, his post had been offered to her. She’d been reluctant at first. That’s when Dr. Blanco had told her she could come to him for advice—but only if it was something too hard for her to cope with alone.

“Could you please tell him what I just said?” Anna asked.

“He’s taking his nap,” the nurse said.

“Please?”

“It sounds important.”

Anna wanted to say, ‘Does war with China sound important?’ Instead, she said, “I really need his advice.”

“Just a minute,” the nurse said.

Anna stared at her computer screen, at the satellite image of Ambarchik Base. This was more than she’d bargained for. She needed to talk to someone. Dr. Blanco was in his eighties now, going blind and in an old folk’s home, one of the best in the country.

“Yes,” the nurse said, coming back on line. “Dr. Blanco would be delighted to speak with you. When can you make it?”

“Give me two hours.”

“He looks forward to it,” the nurse said.

***

Two hours later, Anna sat across from Dr. Blanco. Long ago, his parents had emigrated from Mexico, working in agriculture their entire lives, pushing him to study hard. He had. Old Dr. Blanco now sat forward on a creaking straw chair, with a cane between his knees. He wore a white hat and tie. They were in a side room, with a huge-screen TV showing angelfish swimming in clear water. On a nearby table were two glasses of iced tea.

They spoke of pleasantries for a time. Finally, Dr. Blanco tightened his veined hands on the knob of his cane.

“You look worried, my dear,” Dr. Blanco said. “Please, what is it you would like to tell me?”

“Have you seen the news on the destroyed oilrig?”

“A terrible tragedy,” he said.

Anna nodded, having already decided to edit her story in the interests of protecting her sources, primarily Alfredo Diaz.

“You know I have access to highly confidential information?” she asked.

“My dear, I’m old, not senile. I remember the job.”

Anna nodded. “I happened to run the radio signals from the oilrig on the evening of its destruction.”

Dr. Blanco raised his eyebrows, but made no comment on how she’d gotten something like that.

“Patrol Boat One radioed that they’d picked up a swimmer, an Asian swimmer.”

“I don’t recall seeing that in the news,” Dr. Blanco said.

“It wasn’t. What’s interesting is that the swimmer must have been part of the team that attached the CHKR-57 to the platform. It would be good to know what sort of Asian, but I’m sure the Blacksand men in the patrol boat at night couldn’t tell. CHKR-57 is a Chinese explosive.”

“Does that mean the Asian swimmer was Chinese?” Dr. Blanco asked.

“The search and rescue team found a Chinese body with a TOZ-2 underwater pistol. Those pistols are issued to White Tiger Commandos.”

“None of that was in the news.”

Anna told Dr. Blanco about the Presidential order to intern the S&R Team in Nevada.

The old professor frowned. He finally asked, “Does it make sense for the Chinese to blow up the oil platform?”

“The destruction occurred just before the Secretary of State was getting set to meet with Deng Fong,” Anna said. “It is highly unlikely that Deng would have allowed himself to be used in such a manner. We believe that Deng is being groomed by the Chairman to take his place. It seems even unlikelier that the Chairman would do such a thing to his man, as it would entail a massive loss of face.”

“So it makes no sense for the Chinese to destroy the oil platform,” Dr. Blanco said.

“Yet the search and rescue team found a Chinese swimmer carrying a White Tiger Commando weapon.”

“When did they find the body?”

“The day before yesterday, I believe,” Anna said.

“Do you think our military is trying to hide the information?”

“Sir, I don’t think they would have the authority to hide it. Do you?”

“Do you truly suspect the President or has one of his people ordered the information suppressed?”

“…I suspect both possibilities,” Anna said.

Dr. Blanco made a depreciative sound. “Do you hear yourself? A White Tiger Commando is supposedly found in the water. That would mean the Chinese blew up the oilrig. If the President is hiding the information…. Hmmm. It would seem he believed the Chinese did it and he doesn’t want the public to know.”

“That scenario has occurred to me.”

“Why would the Chinese do such a thing? And why would President Clark hide the information?”

“That’s what I kept asking myself,” Anna said. “Every indicator shows that Deng Fong definitely wished for a trade agreement. He wouldn’t have come in secret to Sydney unless he was serious. I glimpsed the brief that included his offer. They were willing to send large oil shipments for our grain at well below market prices.”

“Hmmm, the Chinese offered to trade at below market prices? They’re among the sharpest traders in the world and have a huge percentage of the oil market. Would they have destroyed the well to make us more desperate and to force us to trade with them at better terms?”

“That very reasoning—that America desperately needed the oil—blocked the Secretary of State from going forward with the deal,” Anna said. “It would show everyone that blowing up our oil wells could change American policy. Terrorists would target them even more often then. You should know, too, that the President can’t look like an appeaser this election year. He’s toughening his international image.”

“Could elements in the Chinese military have taken it upon themselves to independently sponsor the attack?” Dr. Blanco asked.

“You and I both know that’s highly unlikely in most governments and even less so in the Chinese. The Chairman may be ailing, but he still runs the country as his personal fiefdom.”

Dr. Blanco appeared perplexed. “Why are you telling me all this? What makes you so suspicious?”

“The Presidential election is near.”

Dr. Blanco began shaking his head. “No, no, you can’t keep these sorts of thing secret, certainly not for very long. Already, the truth is leaking out because of what you’ve learned, if this is the truth. No, this makes no sense. First, why would the Chinese secretly destroy an American offshore well? Would they be that confident the United States would cave into threats? Now I’ve read your book and I know the Chairman has practiced expansionist military moves before, but only in areas formerly under Chinese control. You went to great lengths to point that out in your book.”

“There’s more,” Anna said. “I…ah…became curious this morning and searched for information concerning China. Do you know they’ve moved ice-mobile formations to the edge of northern Siberia?”

“Excuse me?”

“The Chinese have formed certain of their military units into ice-mobile—”

“Oh, yes, I know about those,” Dr. Blanco said. “The disputes in Antarctica are building concerning the mineral rights there. Several nations have begun to deploy military personnel onto the seventh continent. Russia, China and Argentina have also developed experimental winter-vehicles and several ice-mobile formations.”

“Sir,” said Anna, “let me show you something.” She took out the computer-scroll in her purse and used the touch screen to bring up a tiny map of Eastern Siberia. She pointed out Ambarchik Base.

“These are satellite images,” she said, “Some of our very best.”

“What about verbal communication?”

Anna shook her head. “You know that Chinese electronics are much better than ours.”

“I won’t argue that. What do you think is going on?”

“First answer me this,” Anna said. “Why move ice-mobile units to the most northern edge of Siberia?”

“You think they’re doing it to threaten us?”

“Yes I do, by threatening a cross-polar attack.”

Dr. Blanco frowned. “You mean across the Arctic ice?”

“Exactly.”

“But that’s ludicrous. How many men could they send across, five hundred, eight hundred? It would be a logistical nightmare and to what end?”

“The end would be in capturing the north slope of Alaska where all our oil lies,” Anna said, “to say nothing about the oilrigs in the Arctic Ocean.”

“With eight hundred soldiers?” Dr. Blanco asked. “It would make more sense to airdrop Commando teams or send submarines to smash up through the ice in the Beaufort Sea and disgorge the eight hundred soldiers nearer the targets.”

“What if they could send a division or two across the polar ice?”

“What do you really think? Tell me.”

Anna looked Dr. Blanco in the eye. “I think the Chinese blew up our oil well. What their reasoning was, I don’t know, at least not yet. As preposterous as it seems, however, I do think they’re threatening to grab the north slope of Alaska.”

“And in your opinion the President knows this?”

“President Clark wishes to appear internationally strong, but we both know he isn’t strong. He has shied away from even the slightest use of American power, except for security on the Mexican border. Therefore, I believe he is suppressing the news of the Chinese Commando so the pundits don’t whip up the voters for him to do something against China.”

“You’d better explain that a little more clearly.”

“Like you, sir, the President must believe that China would never send a military column across the ice to grab our oil.”

“Go on,” Dr. Blanco said.

“President Clark also doesn’t want to get into an oilrig-destroying match with China, so he’s trying to ignore what China did to Platform Seven.”

“You think our Navy should destroy Chinese offshore oil wells in retaliation?”

“If they’re destroying ours,” Anna said, “we must destroy theirs in order to stop them from destroying more of ours.”

Dr. Blanco thought about that. “I still find it hard to believe the Chinese sent that swimmer. The Chairman runs China’s foreign policy or Deng makes the moves for him. You’ve made that abundantly clear. Other than trying to bring former lands back under Chinese control, neither has shown a willingness for risky international behavior. Maybe the President is suppressing the news to keep people calm.”

“I want to believe you’re right,” Anna said.

“I still don’t understand why you’ve told me all this.”

Anna searched his face. “I had to tell someone. You seemed like the logical person.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Franklin Roosevelt didn’t do anything to alert Pearl Harbor, and the Japanese destroyed our battleships,” Anna said. “You don’t believe the Chinese will attack across the ice, and the President doesn’t believe it. But what if the Chinese are really planning to do just that? Our military needs to know.”

“What if in alerting our military, we escalate the situation?” Dr. Blanco asked.

“How can we do that by preparing our defenses?”

“Hmmm,” he said, glancing at the videoed angelfish. “If you feel that strongly, go to the President or go to your superior. Maybe this is the reason you are in your position. The President needs wise counsel. Now is your chance to give it to him.”

“But if they’re trying to cover all this up….”

“Anna, one of the most interesting things I learned in my study of government and history is that more people have physical courage than moral courage. If war is coming, I think you should attempt to stop it. In other words, be morally courageous and do the right thing.”

She had been afraid Dr. Blanco would say that.

Could the Chairman truly be practicing what he would normally consider adventurism? What had prompted such a thing? Could the rice riots over there be larger and more threatening than she realized? China had enjoyed massive growth through the decades. But most of the new wealth had been generated along the Chinese coastal regions. Inland where the bulk of the people lived, it was often like the old days. Five hundred million Chinese lived well. That left over a billion and a half angry people. Did China have enough food?

“You have talked to me,” Dr. Blanco said. “Now what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet. I need more data.”

“Then I suggest you keep working, my dear. Find out what is going on.”

That was good advice, and she planned to do just that.

-6-

Last Moves

PLATFORM P-53, ARCTIC OCEAN

“Get up,” the former master sergeant said, the man Murphy had hurled the shot glass at.

Paul Kavanagh removed the arm slung over his eyes. He lay on a couch in the base rec room, with two Blacksand guards in parkas staring at him from the foot of the couch. He’d heard them come in, but had ignored their presence. Each wore a fur-lined hood and ski mask. Paul could see their eyes and mouth and that each slung a rifle over his left shoulder. They looked like Arctic bank robbers or kidnappers, making him feel even more like a prisoner.

“Did you hear me?” asked the master sergeant.

“Yeah,” Paul said. “I heard you.”

“Then get up! John Red Cloud wants to talk to you.”

Paul swung his legs off the couch, putting his feet on the carpeted floor. The otherwise empty room had a billiards table, some TVs with Xboxes attached and a ping-pong table. Outside, the wind blew against the lone window, a tiny, reinforced thing.

“If you want to stay working at the rig,” said the master sergeant, “you’d better hurry up.”

Paul Kavanagh wanted the job. He needed it and couldn’t afford to screw up yet another time. He’d talked with Cheri once since coming here, and she wasn’t doing as well with her hairstyling as she’d hoped. She and Mikey needed cash for rent. The car had taken more than she’d expected to fix, and—and he needed to send them money if he didn’t want his ex-wife and kid on the streets.

The trouble was Paul had left the shed with Murphy in Dead Horse. John Red Cloud had wanted to leave both him and Murphy there, but he wanted trouble with the law even less.

Red Cloud was the boss of the Blacksand team at the Arctic oilrig and had been waiting at Dead Horse for their arrival. The entire situation had gotten even worse for Paul. Red Cloud wasn’t just any Indian, no, not a chance. It was Paul’s luck that Red Cloud was Algonquian. When he’d first heard that, Paul Kavanagh had known what it meant. Algonquian was a northern Indian tribe. It was also one of the two language groups spoken by northern Indians. The other language group was Athabaskan. The only Native American group north of the Algonquians was Inuit or Eskimo. Eskimo was an Algonquian word. It meant raw meat eater. The Algonquians had coined the name before the coming of the Europeans. It had been meant as an insult to the Inuit, as the Algonquians cooked their meat.

Paul had known all this because America had once lent Canada some Marine battalions. He’d fought separatist French-Canadians for the Canadian government. And just as they had done in the colonial days when many native people had fought with the French, many Quebec-based tribes had sided with the separatists. That had been particularly important in the Canadian Shield area where Paul had done the majority of his service. Red Cloud was Algonquian. He had fought for the French-Canadian separatists. Worse for Paul, Red Cloud had witnessed Marines shooting several of his fellow warriors in the woods. After the mini-Canadian civil war, Red Cloud had been driven out of Canada because of his war-record. The Canadian government had granted amnesty to the French-Canadian separatists, but not to the Algonquian warriors who had claimed tribal independence from all sides. Fleeing Canada, Red Cloud had found refuge with Blacksand. Given his northern upbringing and training, Red Cloud made an ideal mercenary for the Arctic oilrigs.

Paul had learned some of this from Red Cloud as the Blacksand boss had chewed them out in Dead Horse.

“He used to be in the Marines,” Murphy had said, using his thumb to point at Paul. Murphy’s voice had sounded funny because of the broken nose and the heavy bandages swathing it.

Red Cloud had nodded in a way that told Paul the Indian had already known that. The Algonquian warrior had gone on to inform them that a fine was coming out of their paychecks. Each of them would work at the rig long enough to pay for their plane tickets and the fine Red Cloud was adding for breach of contract.

“Why not just send us home, Chief?” Murphy had asked.

Those black eyes had locked onto Murphy, and slowly, Red Cloud had shaken his head. There was a hidden deadliness to the Algonquian. Paul could easily imagine Red Cloud torturing a bound man. The Indian wasn’t someone Paul would want to get angry, and yet he had already managed to do so.

The plane ride to Platform P-53 had proven uneventful, if long. Outside the plane had been ice, polar ice, thousands of bleak miles of it in grim darkness and in all directions. The sun wouldn’t shine in this part of the world for months.

From a distance, their destination had looked like Santa Claus’s kingdom. There had been lights, towers and ice. They’d landed on an ice runway and ridden a tracked snowcat to the sheds surrounding the rig. That was Platform P-53: sheds, three working derricks, gravel, huge storage tanks and ice, polar ice floating on the Arctic Ocean. The closest place of interest was the North Pole, while Siberia and Greenland were almost as near as Alaska and Canada.

If what Paul had done hadn’t already been enough, in the last few days, Paul had inadvertently broken three rules. One, he’d phoned his ex-wife in order to talk with Mikey. That had broken two rules at once. In the States, he’d signed a contract that said he’d leave all communication devices behind. By actually using the cell phone to speak with foreign entities he’d broken the second rule. The third infraction had been a second fight with Murphy. Two days ago, the ex-Army Ranger had ambushed him in the rec room. Murphy had clipped the back of his head with a cue stick and almost finished the fight by ramming the end into his back. The fight had ended with Paul using the cue stick. He’d ripped it out of Murphy’s grasp and cracked him on the side of the head, causing the attacker to thump onto the rec room’s carpet. Since then, Paul had been quarantined in the room, while Murphy recovered in the infirmary.

“Last chance, Kavanagh,” the master sergeant in the rec room said.

If you lose this job now, you’re probably finished for good, Paul told himself.  At least you have to try. With a sigh, he shoved himself to his feet. “Yeah, I’m coming. Let’s go talk with Red Cloud.”

Soon, the two guards and Paul crunched across the snow, a light layer of it over the ice. It didn’t snow here much. In fact, many parts of the Arctic received less precipitation than a hot desert.

The derricks pumped oil, with the giant pistons moving up and down. There was a gas flame burning at the top of a pole, getting rid of excess waste fumes.

Paul shivered. The wind was cold against his face. He’d heard incredibly that there were colder places in Siberia. The saltwater here helped keep the temperature higher than otherwise.

A different shed loomed near. There were twelve of varying sizes. The idea that terrorists could get up here to hurt the oilrig seemed more than ludicrous. Still, it was work, and work brought money, and that money Paul needed now more than ever.

“Go on,” said a guard. “And make sure you stamp your feet on the mat. Red Cloud doesn’t like snow on his rug.”

“Take your boots off inside,” the other guard said, glancing at the former master sergeant.

“If he doesn’t know that,” the master sergeant said, “he’s an idiot.”

“We already know he’s an idiot,” the second guard said. “So what’s your point?”

Paul glanced angrily at the second guard.

“What did I tell you?” the second guard told the first. “This guy can’t hold his temper for nothing. Go on inside, loser. And good riddance to you, I say.”

Paul thought about that as he opened the door. Hot air blasted against his face, it felt good. He shut the door behind him, stamped his feet on the mat and took off his boots. The carpeted area had couches, recliners and several paintings on the wall, store-bought pieces of woodlands. There was also as large-screen TV. Various doors led to different bedrooms. They were all closed. One door was open, and Paul spied a desk.

“In here, Marine.”

Paul recognized the odd accent. It wasn’t French-Canadian, but had a hint of it. It must be an Algonquian accent. Taking a deep breath, Paul headed for the open door, still not used to walking around in his stocking feet.

The small Algonquian sat behind a modest desk. Red Cloud had a computer screen and several wooden figurines: an elk, a grizzly and a wolverine. On the wall were more woodland paintings. A Remington shotgun stood in a corner, while an old Uzi machinegun hung on a wall. Red Cloud wore lumberjack style clothes and a strange buckskin pendant on his throat. He studied Paul with those dark eyes of his and finally indicated that he sit down.

There were two chairs, both wooden. Paul sat in the nearest, sitting back so the dowels creaked.

“I’ve been reading your war-record,” Red Cloud said, pointing at the computer screen. “You made several deep penetration raids.”

“There wasn’t much of a front in the woods of Quebec,” Paul said. “Everything was a deep raid, but you know that.”

Red Cloud nodded. “During the war, I killed five Marines, two with my bare hands. I caught them in their sleeping bags.”

Paul had told himself to remain calm and cool while in here, but he felt his face flush with heat. “Is that right? Well I found more of you snow-fleas sitting on the crapper than you could—” Paul snapped his mouth shut, struggling to remain quiet.

“You are a troubled man.”

Paul shrugged.

“Troubled men are a liability in a land like this.”

“Yeah?” Paul asked. “I could live off the land better than anyone here, including you, Cochise.”

“Boasts do not impress me.”

“I ain’t boasting,” Paul said, trying to control his slipping temper. “I’m stating fact.”

Red Cloud touched the pedant on his throat. “You are a warrior. You are a man who likes to fight.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I didn’t start the fight in the bar?”

“I’ve read your record. You had several citations for courage and three chances for a Purple Heart. Yet you never received a medal. Why was that?”

“I’m not good at sucking up,” Paul muttered. “Cheri could tell you that.”

“Warriors are good in a war, but they are trouble during peace. If I were going to raid Greenland, I would choose you. But if we’re to keep men confined in close quarters here, you would be my second to last choice.”

“Is that right?”

“Murphy would be the first to go,” Red Cloud said. “He stinks of even more trouble than you do. My decision here has nothing to do with the fact that we were enemies once. You fought well in Quebec. But I will not keep a warrior like you in my combat team.” Red Cloud regarded him. “The mechanics are working on the plane’s engine, overhauling it. Once it is ready, I am sending you two back to Dead Horse.”

“What about my contract?” Paul asked. He felt numb, defeated once more.

“You broke your word. I can terminate your contract at anytime, and it is my will to do so now.”

Paul stared into those pitiless eyes. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to get up and do something. Cheri had sounded desperate over the phone. She and Mikey needed the money.

“Listen…” Paul said, searching for the right words. He’d never been good at this and he felt so numb, so defeated. He didn’t know how to kiss butt and he didn’t want to start with some French-Canadian Algonquian. He turned away from those knowing eyes. “Listen,” he said roughly. “I…ah fought against you once, right.”

“I have said as much. You were a worthy foe.”

“Yeah, I’m glad to hear it.” Paul shook his head without looking at the Algonquian. This was so demeaning. “That isn’t what I wanted to say. I…I have a wife and kid back home.”

“The records say you are divorced,” Red Cloud told him, as he indicted the computer.

“Right, right, that’s right,” Paul said. “But I’m helping her make payments, make rent. My boy—”

“Mike Kavanagh,” Red Cloud said.

“I call him Mikey,” Paul said. “He needs…he needs—damnit! This is hard for me. I don’t know the right words. I’m too quick with my fists sometimes. My temper hasn’t been any good since Quebec. I don’t know how—” Paul’s lips firmed and he glared at Red Cloud. “I’m asking for another chance. I’m not asking because I deserve it. I probably don’t. I know I’m trouble, but let me work here until I can send them money. They really need it. I don’t care about myself, but, but…do you have any kids?”

“The Marines killed them during the war,” Red Cloud said.

Paul noted the hard eyes, the mask-like Algonquian features. Red Cloud reminded him of the Wild West photographs of Geronimo and Sitting Bull.

“I’m sorry they died,” Paul said.

Red Cloud just stared at him.

“That’s it then, huh?”

“You will work until the plane is ready. You will check the outer perimeter ice or you will not eat.”

The anger had left Paul. Had Marines really slain Red Cloud’s kids? War sucks. Sometimes life wasn’t that great either. He’d lost another job and he was stuck up here so he couldn’t even try to get another one, no matter how rotten it was. How was Cheri supposed to make rent? What would Mikey think about his dad now?

Paul stood up. “I get it, and I don’t blame you.”

“Go,” Red Cloud said. “Your presence wearies me, and I am already too tired.”

Paul realized he’d been screwed from the start. Stuck in the North Pole with a Marine-hating Algonquian for a boss—it couldn’t get any worse than that.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna Chen arrived in her West Wing cubicle exhausted. She’d been up until four a.m. last night, reading the latest CIA reports and comparing them with her own sources of information concerning the People’s Republic of China.

Something had caught her eye yesterday, making sleep nearly impossible as she kept churning over what it meant. It was a speech by the Agricultural Minister, Jian Shihong. He had spoken in Tiananmen Square for the Tea Ceremony commemorating the dead lost during Taiwan’s reunification with the mainland. Two things intrigued her about the event. One, the ailing Chairman had appeared on stage with the Agricultural Minister. Anna had spent two hours examining every photo and recording she could showing the Chairman during the Tea Ceremony. He seldom appeared in public these days, and reports of his failing health were rampant. On stage, he’d sat very straight, as if it were difficult for him to do so. During Jian Shihong’s speech, the Chairman had sat even straighter. The old man’s eyes had seemed to shine during one part of the speech especially. That was the second thing that had intrigued Anna: the Agricultural Minister’s commentary on Cheng Ho.

She was familiar with the Chinese eunuch. During the Ming Dynasty of Renaissance times, Cheng Ho had often been referred to as the Admiral of the Triple Treasure or the Three-Jewel Eunuch. He first set out on his voyages during the reign of Ming Emperor Yung Lo. The seven grand expeditions occurred from 1405 to 1422. During the same time, Prince Henry the Navigator of Portugal was sending his ships inching down the west coast of Africa in tiny caravels.

With his fleet, Cheng Ho sailed beyond the China Sea and around the Indian Ocean. He reached the east coast of Africa and voyaged as far as the tip of the Dark Continent. Unlike Prince Henry’s small flotillas with their leaky ships, Cheng Ho possessed monstrous vessels. The largest, the Treasure Ship, boasted nine masts, had been four hundred and forty-four feet long, with a beam of one hundred and eighty feet. It had airtight bulkheads to prevent leakage or fire from spreading and a gigantic rudder.

The grandest expedition had employed thirty-seven thousand soldiers, scholars and sailors and had been composed of three hundred and seventeen ships. It had also been uniquely Chinese in outlook. These expeditions hadn’t sailed in conquest, but in peace, displaying the splendor and power of the new Ming Dynasty. It had shown the greatness of the Middle Kingdom—China considered itself as the center of the world. Cheng Ho had also gathered curios for the emperor and his court and had given gifts of massive proportion to those he’d visited. His generosity had shown the greatness of China, and that it needed nothing from the outer reaches of the world. The most excellent of the curios taken back to Beijing had been a giraffe from Africa.

In Chinese belief of that time, when Heaven smiled on the Emperor because of his excellent rule, it radiated cosmic forces of good will. This surplus energy helped create creatures like dragons and k’i-lin. The k’i-lin, a type of Chinese unicorn, had the ‘body of a deer and the tail of an ox.’ It only ate herbs and harmed no living creature. To the Chinese, the giraffe they discovered in the Bengal king’s zoo fit this description. Cheng Ho had soon learned that the giraffe was called a girin in its native country. To his ear and those around him that had sounded very much like k’i-lin, confirming his belief. When they brought the giraffe back to China, people were amazed, and they agreed that this was a sign of Heaven’s favor and showed the goodness of the Middle Kingdom.

These voyages were a marvel, and they’d shown that China had possessed superior technology as compared to Europe at the time. However, there had been political forces at work that had strangled the naval expeditions.

The two forces vying for power were the emperor’s eunuchs or courtiers and the mandarins, the bureaucrats that ran the country. The eunuchs or castrati had gained their power because of their nearness to the emperor. No one but eunuchs or the emperor and his sons were allowed in the palace among the emperor’s many wives and concubines. Therefore, the eunuchs not only intimately understood what interested the emperor, but they could whisper suggestions to him at any time. Over time, this had led to their political rise.

During the voyages, the eunuchs were in the assent. Gradually, however, the mandarins regained their customary control. In 1433, the emperor—under mandarin guidance—had issued the first of many edicts that enforced the Grand Withdrawal.

Chinese reclusiveness was an old story. It stemmed from the belief that China was the Middle Kingdom and that it needed nothing from the outer barbaric world. The Great Wall of China was a symptom of this. So was the Great Withdrawal as the edicts inflicted increasingly savage punishments on Chinese who ventured aboard. These edicts also imposed a marine withdrawal, and soon it was a crime to build a ship with more than one mast.

China lost its chance to discover Europe and stamp its civilization on the world. Instead, the grasping Europeans discovered China. That had partly happened because China had withdrawn from its own greatness. It had also happened because the Europeans had desired a thousand new things like pepper, silk and gold wherever they could get it. It had pulled the Europeans to all corners of the world.

Jian Shihong had spoken about these things in Tiananmen Square. He’d bewailed the lost chance of bringing peace and civilization to a barbaric world during Cheng Ho’s time. He’d spoken about China’s present greatness and how she owed it to herself to make sure the Middle Kingdom didn’t abandon its own welfare because of the barbarism practiced elsewhere. China must spread its civilization everywhere in these dangerous nuclear times. Fortunately, China had the Chairman to guide them through the treacherous waters of this glacial era. If others would hoard food, China would have to take matters into their own hands. Cheng Ho had freely given to the world. Now it was the world’s turn to give to China. If they would not give, China would rouse itself to act. On this, everyone present must assure themselves that the Chairman would do what was needed.

There had been more of the same. At the end of the increasingly passionate speech, the Agricultural Minister had turned to the Chairman, kneeling before him and bowing like a eunuch of old.

The masses had erupted with wild clapping and cheering, while the Chinese national anthem had been blared over the loudspeakers.

As she sipped her morning tea, thinking about the speech, Anna sat up in sudden wonder. She turned on the computer and brought up the video of Tiananmen Square. Using zoom, she carefully scanned the people on stage with the Chairman and Jian Shihong. After the third scan, Anna concluded that Deng Fong was nowhere to be found with them. Quickly, she brought up old Tea Ceremonies commemorating the dead of the Taiwan reunification. Each time, Deng Fong had delivered the speech. In some, the Chairman was present, but not in others.

“Something has happened,” Anna whispered to herself. What did she know about Jian Shihong? He was young, ambitious and driven, a youth of fifty-six sitting on the Ruling Committee of the Politburo. He also ran the failed Agricultural Ministry.

In Sydney, Deng Fong had wished to trade oil for grain.

Anna studied old notes. Deng had handpicked Jian for the post. Then she recalled a counter CIA brief. It took her a full ten minutes to find it. This analyst believed that Deng wished to torpedo Jian by stationing him in a post that couldn’t succeed. With the new glaciation, how could any Chinese no matter how gifted hope to increase crop yields?

Was there a hidden power play in progress?

Thinking deeply, Anna took the elevator to the cafeteria and refilled her cup with herbal tea. When she returned to her cubicle, she read CIA and DIA reports concerning China’s latest military moves. Then she used a special program to search the Black Files the NSA sent to the President’s Priority Cell.

Anna’s pulse quickened as she read a paragraph concerning a regiment of T-66 multi-turreted tanks. They’d been driven onto special cargo ships. Those were Army tanks, not Chinese naval infantry vehicles. Why were the Army’s latest T-66s taking part in the naval exercise?

Anna’s palms felt moist. She turned off her computer and stared at the dead screen. She saw her reflection and shook her head. She didn’t want to do this, but Anna Chen found herself standing. Taking a deep breath, Anna headed for the bathroom. She needed to speak with Colin Green, the National Security Advisor. The usual way was to first speak with the Third Assistant and gain an appointment. Anna had the terrible feeling that it might already be too late.

Thinking that, she broke into a run, and caused several people to look up and stare at her in surprise. It made her queasy, them looking at her, but she kept running until she hit the bathroom door and hurried inside.

Soon, Anna came out and made her way across the West Wing to the National Security Advisor’s office. She walked inside and cleared her throat.

The National Security Advisor’s secretary looked up. “Oh my,” the man said. “Anna Chen?” he asked.

Anna tried to smile, but failed. She felt uneasy and self-conscious. In the bathroom, she’d tightened her shapeless dress with a belt, cinching it around her waist. She’d undone the bun and brushed the hair to her shoulders, scrubbed off the makeup hiding her smooth skin and had even taken off the thick glasses.

“You’re beautiful,” the secretary said.

Anna wanted to groan. She hated those words, and it made her blurt, “I need to speak with Colin Green—please.”

The secretary kept staring at Anna.

“Is he here?” Anna asked.

“Pardon?”

“The National Security Advisor—”

The door opened as Colin Green stepped out. He’d served in the Air Force for the first twenty years after college. He was brisk, of middle height and the former Senator of California, his influence helping Clark carry the State in his first bid for the Presidency. Green grinned upon sight of Anna. He wore an Armani suit and had short cut, prematurely gray hair. He was known for his extravagant style.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Anna Chen would like a word with you, sir,” the secretary said.

“This young lady?” asked Green.

“She belongs on your staff, sir.”

“You do?” Green asked Anna.

She nodded, feeling more miserable than ever. She should never have let down her hair. Why did she think she’d needed to do this to see the National Security Advisor?

“She heads the China Desk to your Third Assistant,” the secretary said.

“Oh,” Green said, frowning, and looking at Anna anew. “Did you do something to your hair?” he asked.

“Sir,” Anna said, “I think you should see this.” She held a computer-scroll in her hand.

Green was shaking his head. “I’m late for a meeting, I’m afraid. The President—”

“I believe China is about to attack America,” Anna said.

“Eh?” asked Green, who had already taken two steps through the office. He stopped and stared at her, the grin no longer there.

“They’ve massed ice-mobile battalions in Eastern Siberia at the most northern edge,” Anna said. “It looks as if they mean to cross the polar ice and attack Canada or Alaska.”

“Why would they do that?” Green asked. His frown had deepened, putting lines on his aging face.

“I’m not sure,” Anna admitted.

“Oh,” Green said, and a building tension seemed to leave him. “Well, write a report and give it to the Third Assistant. I’ll read it later, if he believes it’s warranted.”

“Sir,” Anna said, as he began walking again. “The Chinese are putting T-66 multi-turreted tanks in special cargo vessels.”

Colin Green waved his hand in dismissal. “The Chinese are having their yearly naval exercise,” he said.

“I know that, sir,” Anna said, following him into the quick-exit hall for the underground garage. “But the T-66s tanks are special. They’re the latest in Chinese battlefield technology. There are only a few regiments of them, and now the most combat-ready regiment is being placed onto cargo vessels. The Chinese have never done that before.”

“I’m sure it’s all part of their naval exercise.”

“Sir,” Anna said, “what is the President afraid of?”

Colin Green whirled around. His famous intensity radiated from him. He was known for his outbursts and during them his foul language. “What are you talking about, young lady? What have you heard?”

“The Chinese attacked our oil well off of California,” Anna said. “They did it to sabotage the Secretary of State’s talks in Sydney.”

“Where did you hear that?” Green said, and his eyes flashed. He seemed ready to hit her.

It frightened Anna, but this was too important for her to back down now. She forced herself to say, “Deng Fong didn’t deliver the Tea Ceremony speech in Tiananmen Square a day ago. Jian Shihong did, in the company of the Chairman.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Green asked.

“Yes,” Anna said. “It’s a powerful political indicator. You and I both know that Deng Fong wishes for peaceful relations with us. What does Jian Shihong desire?”

“Attacking America is madness,” declared Green. He glanced around, and he seemed surprised to find himself in the hall. He scowled, and he shook his head, as if struggling to suppress his emotions. “The President has told me this many times over the last few days.” Green studied her, searching for something.

It compelled Anna to say, “I only want to do what’s best for America, sir.”

“Your idea of a Chinese attack on the Californian oilrig is ludicrous.”

“I know about the White Tiger Commando they found in the water, sir.”

His mouth dropped open, and he swore before saying, “I don’t know how you learned about that. You’re going to tell me how, but right now that doesn’t matter.” He swore again, shaking his head. “Listen to me. The Chinese assault on the oilrig is highly classified information.” He stopped speaking as his eyes roved up and down her body and lingered on her breasts.

It made Anna nauseous.

Green took several steps nearer. “Listen to me, Ms. Chen. This is very important you understand what I’m about to say. President Clark wants peace more than any man on the planet. Too often, nations have conflicted with each other for petty reasons. There were many in the Pentagon who wished to invade Mexico during their recent civil war. Wisely, President Clark kept us out of that.”

“I’m aware of that, sir. It was one of the reasons I voted for him.

Green didn’t seem to hear her as he kept talking. “China is a young country.”

“Excuse me, sir, but China is old beyond measure, the oldest culture on the planet.”

“Don’t interrupt me, Ms. Chen.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to do so. But you must understand—”

Green lurched close and grabbed one of her wrists. His grip was strong. “Don’t ever interrupt me when I’m talking. Do you understand?”

Anna nodded, suddenly afraid. She’d heard strange stories about Colin Green, but had never believed them. The things he’d allegedly done as Senator of California to several visiting actresses—no one could be elected and do such things.

Green wore musky cologne and he had gin on his breath. “I’m telling you that China is a young country, the new great power. There are military men in China who would like nothing better than war with the United States. President Clark isn’t going to give them the provocation their military desires. The Chairman has told the President more than once that he wishes for universal peace.”

Anna summoned her courage to ask, “Then why did the Chairman invade Siberia and Taiwan?”

The grip tightened around her wrist, grinding bones together.

“You listen to me, you little witch. I won’t have people on my staff beating the war drums against China when the President has already made his decision. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Anna whispered.

“You are to immediately go home and lock yourself in your house. Stay there until I send a security team to guard you. If you fail to do this, young lady, there will be serious consequences. Do I make myself clear?” He tightened his grip so Anna squirmed.

“You’re hurting me, sir.”

“Yes, because I don’t want you hurting the President’s policies. Now do as I’ve said, Ms. Chen. Go,” and he shoved her.

Anna stumbled and might have fallen, but she steadied herself against the wall.

National Security Advisor Colin Green straightened his tie and let his gaze rove over her body one more time. Then he nodded and headed down the hall.

FORT RICHARDSON, ALASKA

Stan Higgins was in the officers club of Fort Richardson, which was an Army base just north of Anchorage. He didn’t feel like going home today and arguing with his wife again. She didn’t want him posting bail for his dad. He’d tried to get a loan at the bank….

Stan scowled as he sat at a table sipping beer. He appreciated Pastor Bill’s advice and his friend’s insights. According to Bill, Sergeant Jackson had been in the process of giving him a break with his dad. Bill had pointed out that he’d threatened or practically threatened a police officer. Cops usually went ballistic if you did that. Jackson had held his cool and had even been willing to give his dad another chance. Maybe the police officer felt bad for what he’d done to his dad in jail.

“I doubt it,” Stan muttered to himself, sipping his beer.

“Professor.”

Stan looked up to see Brigadier Hector Ramos standing there. The slender officer nodded. He had a beer and glanced at a chair.

“Be my guest,” said Stan.

Ramos sat down. He was the Brigadier of the 1st Stryker Brigade, ‘the Arctic Wolves.’ The Army and National Guard officers meet more often these days. With the Army’s shrinkage and the National Guard gaining tanks, Bradleys and other fighting vehicles, they needed to coordinate more.

Of Mexican descent and with a dark mustache, Hector Ramos was considered a controversial officer. Some of the higher brass in the Pentagon thought of him as a hotshot and a maverick. Others like Stan appreciated the brigadier’s candor and quick intelligence.

“You looked troubled,” Ramos said.

“It shows, huh?”

Ramos shrugged and then suggested, “Let’s play a game of darts.”

A crooked grin crossed Stan’s face. The other officers knew of his love of games, of competition. Ramos was just as fierce a competitor as Bill. Stan had thought before the two should meet, and he’d tried to get the brigadier to come to church with him. Ramos had always declined, saying his interests were more scientific.

They took their beers and went into the other room. For the next fifteen minutes, they tossed darts at the round board. Stan had natural ability, and despite his preoccupation with his dad, he played well. The brigadier had intense focus, and his muscles seemed perfectly wired to his brain. Hector Ramos won.

“Again?” the brigadier asked.

Stan sighed and shook his head.

Hector rubbed his chin. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Would your father like to come to the officers’ barbecue next week?”

Stan looked alarmed. “What have you heard?”

“Ah. So it is your father.”

Stan features fell.

Frowning, Ramos said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried. You just didn’t seem yourself and I was wondering….”

“You haven’t heard anything then?” Stan asked.

“No.”

“Then why did you just ask me that?”

“I had a premonition.”

Stan shook his head. Hector Ramos often amazed him. The man was uncanny. He wondered if General Lee of the Confederacy had been like that. Now there had been a tactical genius of the battlefield. Hmm. The Army had made a mistake posting Brigadier Ramos up here in Alaska. The only real potential war was on the Rio Grande, where they could use a man like Hector Ramos if things ever got hot.

They played another game of darts and each had another beer. Stan found himself telling Ramos about his dad and the incident with Sergeant Jackson.

“A war veteran like your father shouldn’t be in jail,” Ramos said as they sat down. “He needs professional help.”

“Tell me about it,” said Stan. “I’ve tried to post bail…but you know how tight money is these days.”

“They say the Depression is over, but no one told our economy that.”

“Exactly,” said Stan.

Ramos cocked his head. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and extracted two hundred dollar bills. “I would like to donate to your father’s bail.”

Stan blinked at the money. He swallowed, touched by the brigadier’s generosity. “No. I couldn’t—”

Ramos placed the two bills on the table. “Take them. If you don’t get enough for bail, use this for your lawyer.”

“Brigadier—”

Hector Ramos stood up. There was something dark in his eyes. “I remember my father….” He looked away, shook his head and turned back to Stan. Whatever had been in his eyes was hooded now. “Take the money, Professor. It’s the least I can do for our best tank commander.”

“Sir—”

“No one receives proper wages these days. Tell me later what happened.”

“No,” said Stan. “This is too much.”

“Isn’t that always the case, Captain? A good day to you.” Then Brigadier Hector Ramos strode away, leaving Stan staring at the two hundred dollar bills lying on the table beside the darts.

-7-

Beginnings

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

First Rank Lu Po of the White Tiger Commandos doubted he would survive the attack against the two American carriers. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to survive. And if that meant jeopardizing the mission…Lu shrugged his thick shoulders. In that case, the High Commander of the White Tigers should have picked someone else. Well, it actually meant that Lu should have wrestled with less vigor. He’d known even during the matches that he should have faked an injury. The trouble was he couldn’t do that. No one had ever beaten him wrestling and he hadn’t been about to let anyone do it then, either. Besides, if he’d lost, the commander and others would have been suspicious, and that sort of suspicion directed against him would have been unhealthy.

Pride and fear have brought you here.

As the San Francisco-registered fishing trawler creaked among the bay’s waves, Lu flexed his pectorals. They were iron-hard. He could bench-press four hundred and forty-five pounds and had once broken a man’s hand simply by squeezing it. He’d apologized afterward and had felt guilty. Still, it had let everyone in the combat group know how strong he was.

Lu Po sighed. He was strong, and he was smart. He wondered what winning wrestling matches had to do with aiming a Dragon Claw missile. Practically nothing was the answer. The wrestling matches had been about winning the chance to go on a suicide mission for China. It was a morale-booster. It showed the remaining White Tigers what a hero the winners were. It made the others proud to belong to such a warrior elite.

We wrestled for the chance to die heroically for China.

While shaking his head, Lu looked up at the fleecy clouds. It was funny, but there were clouds just like this in Taipei Harbor where he’d trained. Yet this was America. To be precise, it was San Francisco and the City by the Bay housed two precious American supercarriers.

As Lu listened to the waves lap against the fishing trawler, he spied a soaring seagull.

It’s such a perfect day.  I’d like to fly away from here. Yes, what is my pride worth now? I won the matches, but none of the others will remember me fifteen years from now.

Lu scanned San Francisco Bay. He avoided looking at the two supercarriers docked four kilometers away. It was too painful just yet. The city with its large buildings looked like Taipei. He’d liked to visit San Francisco and go to Chinatown to taste their clam chowder.

Blowing out his cheeks in frustration, Lu knew that would never happen. He was here to win eternal glory for his country. He’d joined the White Tigers for the same reason many young men did, to win a marriage permit. He’d never have sex with a woman now, and he wanted to do that more than anything else in life.

Instead, I’m about to die.

“First Rank, when do we begin?” shouted Fighter Rank Wang from a distance.

Lu winced and his iron-hard stomach tightened. If he’d had his shirt off, that tightening would have shown his muscled abs. He’d always wanted to sit naked next to a girl on a bed and flex for her, letting her see what a strong man was about to lay on her. He’d always wanted to listen to a girl exclaim how powerful he looked. Then he wanted to make her sing with urgency as she and he became one. But in China there were no longer enough girls to go around.

“First Rank—”

“I heard you!” shouted Lu.

A ‘fisherman’ in yellow slicker-garb turned abruptly, staring at him. The fisherman was a Dong Dianshan, an East Lightning political officer, here to bolster their resolve.

He means to shoot us if we lose our nerve.

Lu Po scowled. He resented the fisherman, the need for East Lightning to sully the operation by their presence. If Lu changed the order of procedure, he and his fellow Commandos could more easily make their escape afterward. The fisherman staring at him would never agree to change the procedure, however. The change would lower the odds of mission success by several percentage points.

Puffing, Fighter Rank Wang reached Lu’s place at the back of the trawler. “We must begin the operation,” the smaller Commando said. “It is time and we have reached the optimum location.”

“Do you want to die?” Lu asked him.

Wang was smaller and lighter. He’d won the martial arts combat. The White Tiger was phenomenally quick and stronger than his skinny muscles would lead one to believe.

“I want to destroy the carriers,” Wang said.

“As do I,” said Lu. “But that wasn’t my question. Do you want to live?”

“Not at the price of cowardice.”

“No one is suggesting such a thing.”

“I think you are,” said Wang. “You are showing hesitation in the face of the enemy.”

“I can crush a man’s hand with my own,” said Lu.

Wang cocked his head.

“Stand aside,” said Lu. “The political officer wishes to make a speech.”

The East Lightning political officer in the slicker garb approached warily. He had narrow features, with a stray lock of hair over his eyes.

“It is time to destroy the carriers,” the political officer said.

“Yes,” said Lu.

“You must arm the missiles and fire them.”

“First,” Lu said, “I would like to lower the T-9s into the water, activate their batteries and don my wetsuit and scuba gear.”

The political officer blinked rapidly before shaking his head. “You will follow procedures.” He snaked a hand through the front of his slicker, no doubt to the butt of a pistol tucked behind his belt.

“Of course I shall,” said Lu, bowing his head and hardening his resolve. All along, he should have realized it had to be this way. He was a White Tiger Commando. He would do what needed doing and with a minimum of fuss.

“I apologize for being tardy,” Lu said. It was difficult to do, but he tried to look contrite.

The political officer squinted at him and nodded slowly as he removed the hand from inside the slicker. “We are making the ultimate sacrifice,” he said.

“No,” Lu said. “You are.” He grabbed the man’s nearest hand and squeezed with all his strength.

The political officer’s eyes bugged outward. His mouth opened and a bellow began. Lu yanked the political officer against him and clamped his free hand over the man’s mouth. He took a two-handed grip around the man’s head, laying his right forearm against it so part of his arm lay over the man’s right ear. Then he twisted his arms hard and fast. The political officer shuddered as his neck broke. The cracking sound was quieter than Lu would have imagined. He felt the strength ooze from the dying man. He released. The political officer thudded onto the deck, banging his head. Lu knelt and withdrew the police automatic.

“What have you done?” cried Wang.

“Increased our chances for survival,” said Lu. His heart pounded as a great sense of exhilaration flowed through him. He noted Wang’s shock. Standing, and with the gun negligibly pointed at Wang’s belly, Lu said, “I must ask you a question, soldier.”

Wang glanced at the gun and into Lu’s eyes. He nodded without fear.

“Are you my brother,” asked Lu, “my fellow Commando?”

“I won’t tell anyone…how the political officer lost his life in service to China,” Wang said.

Lu shook his head. “That isn’t what I mean.”

“You must speak to me, brother, and tell me what I should do.”

“Do you still have your knife?” asked Lu.

“…yes.”

“Then go below and kill the third political officer.”

“What about the second Dong Dianshan with the captain?” Wang asked.

“I will kill him myself.”

“Then?” asked Wang.

“Then we will lower the T-9s, don wetsuits and scuba gear—”

“What about our mission?” Wang cried.

“Calm yourself, Fighter Rank. We will complete it after we’ve readied our escape.”

“The others on the trawler—”

“Are under deep cover and will still take their inflatables to shore and blend in among the mongrel hordes of America.”

Wang hesitated several seconds, glancing a second time at Lu’s gun. Finally, he nodded.

“Good,” said Lu. He hadn’t wanted to kill Wang, but he couldn’t trust the man unless Wang helped him murder the rest of the East Lightning political officers and thereby comprised himself. “Let’s go,” Lu said. “We don’t have much time.”

***

The High Commander of the White Tigers hadn’t explained the strategic importance of the mission to Lu. He hadn’t needed too. Lu understood perfectly.

The American Navy had six supercarriers. Twenty years ago in 2012, they’d had eleven such ships. Money had been tight for the American Defense establishment and cuts had been made all around. During the bleakest years, the American Navy had decommissioned carriers, along with other vessels.

The Chinese Navy on the other hand had known massive growth. China presently boasted eight supercarriers, meaning any aircraft carrier over 70,000 tons. If the White Tigers could destroy these two American carriers, that would give China a two-to-one advantage. The short-term advantage would be even larger. Two American supercarriers were on the other side of the continent in the Atlantic Ocean. It would take time for them to sail around the South American tip and then to Alaska. During that time, China would have a four-to-one advantage in carriers.

The Chinese carriers were also newer, with newer fighter-jets and better electronics. The fighters had superior air-to-air missiles and the pilots had logged three times the flight hours as their American counterparts. Taken all together, it should grant nearly total sea superiority to the Chinese Navy during the Alaskan Invasion.

However, these things could only be achieved if the American carriers sheltering in San Francisco Bay were destroyed. The importance of the present mission was critical, the reason no doubt why the High Commander had wanted his best warriors performing the operation. Lu wondered if that had been the reason for the wrestling and martial arts matches.

***

First Rank Lu Po helped Wang struggle into his wetsuit. Using heavy-fiber rope, the other White Tigers splashed the two T-9s into the water beside the trawler.

“If we fail because of this…” whispered Wang.

Lu laughed grimly. He’d shot the second political officer in the gut. The policeman had actually asked him why. For an answer, Lu had finished him with a shot to the heart. Lu had then explained the new order of procedure to the trawler captain. The deep-cover Chinese aboard ship acting as crew were not going to be a problem.

“We will destroy the carriers and live to earn our rewards,” Lu said.

“Someone on shore or in a nearby boat might have noticed our actions and radioed about us to the Americans,” Wang said.

“Look around you. No one is near, and we’re kilometers from the carriers.”

“Do you think a submarine will really be out there for us?”

Lu paused. He hadn’t thought about that. A second later, he shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about the rescue submarine. We will proceed with the plan and hope that the Navy possesses men of honor.”

“You mean proceed with your altered plan,” Wang said.

With one arm, Lu hoisted Wang’s scuba tanks. He used the other hand to slap his comrade on the back. “You’re a worrier, so worry if you want. I’m telling you, though, that we’re about to turn ourselves into legends.”

“How can you be so calm about this?”

Because I’ve just improved my percentages of survival. Lu didn’t say that aloud. Instead, he told Wang, “This is China’s hour, and the Americans are living on borrowed time. Didn’t they borrow our money for decades?”

Wang laughed, nodding.

“Let’s do it,” Lu said.

In their wetsuits, the two moved to a large tarp. The knots had already been undone. Wang gripped the tarp and dragged it off, revealing a missile-launcher. Inside the giant tube was a Dragon Claw missile. It had a turbojet engine with solid propellant fuel. The warhead was two hundred and thirty kilograms of CHKR-57 explosive. Its wingspan was one point seven meters, and the missile was a ship-killer.

Lu unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt and pressed a button. “Are you ready?”

“Roger,” came the reply.

Clipping the walkie-talkie back to his belt, First Rank Lu Po went to the firing location. He’d practiced this in Taipei Harbor over one hundred times on a simulator and two times with live missiles. He put his eye to the rangefinder, locating the massive carrier several kilometers across the bay. The Americans had called it a turkey-shoot once against the Japanese Navy during an air-naval battle off the Marianas Islands during World War Two. This would be a Chinese turkey-shoot.

Lu’s palms unaccountably became moist. Now was the moment and he had become nervous. It troubled him. The High Commander had told them they were the best soldiers the world had ever produced and were therefore superior to normal men. Normal men shook and sweated under stress. A White Tiger calmly went about his duties. The truth was otherwise, it seemed. Lu wiped his moist palms on his wetsuit as he said, “Turn it on.”

Wang clicked on the radar, and in three seconds, it beeped. “We have lock-on,” Wang said excitedly.

Lu nodded, stared at the huge carrier through the rangefinder and reveled in the feeling in his stomach. It fluttered with butterflies, with nerves. He rather liked the feeling. It told him he was alive, on the edge of life. Ah, life was indeed precious and to risk it, what a keen moment this was. He would never forget this. Slowly, he pressed the firing button.

There was a loud ripping sound. The entire trawler trembled. The ejector blew out the missile as its thrusters roared into life. The noise was tremendous—indescribable. Lu kept the rangefinder centered on the mighty vessel. He would use radio beams to guide the altered missile onto target. He would do this by keeping the ship in his sights, just like an ATGM.

“It’s skimming over the water!” shouted Wang.

A second missile roared into life. If the others had done their task correctly, it would hit the second carrier.

“This is beautiful,” Wang said in an awed voice.

Lu wanted to look up and see. Instead, he kept his eye glued to the target. No jets catapulted off the flight deck. No anti-missile rounds streaked into the air. Instead—

The Dragon Claw missile smashed into the side of the USS Ronald Reagan. A microsecond later, a titanic explosion erupted. Men, flight deck and jet parts flew skyward. An intense fireball barreled into existence. Then the second missile hit and ignited within the second American carrier.

“We must fire another round!” shouted Lu.

The shockwave hit them then. It was a victorious feeling and ruffled Lu’s hair.

Together, the two teams launched two more missiles. Their training proved exquisite and more than justified. Two more altered Dragon Claw missiles skimmed the water and struck the burning supercarriers in the distance. Now at last, far away in the sky, two specks appeared.

“Aircraft!” shouted Wang.

“It’s time to leave!” shouted Lu.

He and Wang sprinted for the other side of the trawler. By following the old procedure, they would never have had time to don wetsuits and scuba tanks. This way, they could possibly escape and dive with the T-9s into the depths of the harbor.

The deep-cover trawler crew already roared away in their inflatables.

“Jump!” shouted Lu. He leaped overboard, plummeted and hit the water with his feet. His flippers were attached to his belt. Curling, with water gurgling in his ears, he halted his descent and groped for his flippers. It seemed like forever before they were on his feet. With several sharp kicks, he headed for the surface. Soon, he spied the nearest T-9 floundering in the sea. He swam harder and climbed aboard at the controls.

“Go,” said Wang, who had crawled on with him.

Lu turned on the T-9. It vibrated with power. He yanked the controls and began to dive, the craft’s propeller spinning wildly. Behind him, he heard the roar of fighter-launched air-to-ship missiles. Then a terrific explosion occurred. He looked back at the last moment. Debris was flying from the trawler. Then Lu’s head was underwater and he faced forward. There was another explosion that hurt his ears. He revved the T-9 and fled at full power, all the time diving deeper and deeper into the bay.

He had done it. He’d eliminated two American carriers and he was making his getaway. If the rescue submarine was out there, he would return to China as a hero, provided Wang could keep his mouth shut about killing the East Lightning political officers.

As Lu turned the T-9 slightly, aiming for the San Francisco Bay exit, he wondered if he should stop along the way and kill Wang for good measure. It was probably better to be sure than to trust a talker.

He’d think about it. There was no need to do it yet. He would make the decision once he’d actually gotten away and was out at sea. For now, he needed his wits, some luck, and more than his share of good karma. Ah, life was glorious indeed. He was a legend, and he’d broken an East Lightning political officer’s hand before killing him. Life was not only good—it was sweet.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It had been several days now since Anna had confronted Colin Green. She had gone home, as he’d ordered. Shortly thereafter, several of Mr. Green’s security people had shown up. To her astonishment, they had told her she was recuperating from an illness and would need to stay inside for the next few days.

She’d tried her cell phone, but it hadn’t work, nor had her computer.

“This is kidnapping!” she declared.

The chief security agent had merely shaken his head. “We’re here to see that you have a full recovery, Ms. Chen. Then you’ll return to work.”

Anna presently sat in her living room, switching between CNN news, Fox and NBC. She watched the ongoing coverage of the sneak carrier attack.

The two supercarriers were wrecks. Susan Salisbury of Fox News, a stunning redhead and a former Miss America Queen, stood at the end of Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco with a microphone in her hand. Behind her in the distance was the USS Ronald Reagan. She spoke about possible repairs, mentioning the Japanese sneak attack in World War Two. The Japanese then had damaged a carrier named Lexington. With her glossy red lips, Susan Salisbury told the audience how American service men had repaired the vintage carrier so it could fight in the critical battle of Midway in 1942. Her manner suggested the same sort of repairs might occur today with the Ronald Reagan.

Looking at the wreckage on the TV, Anna Chen doubted that.

“Has there been any further news concerning the identity of the terrorists making the attacks?” asked the prim Fox anchor, Don Howard.

“I’ve heard there’s several murdered fisherman aboard the trawler,” Susan Salisbury said. “They were killed assassin-style, apparently before the sneak attack took place. The authorities have reason to believe the boat was hijacked by Taiwanese extremists.”

“That’s very interesting, Susan,” the anchor said. “Retired General Ross is waiting in the Green Room. General, could you explain to our audience why Taiwanese extremists might wish to stage such an assault on our carriers.”

As white-haired, retired General Ross appeared on the TV, the apartment’s front door opened. Pressing mute with her remote, Anna looked up.

Two new security agents moved into the living room. They scanned the premises, wearing dark sunglasses and with jacks in their ears. They ignored the blond agent watching TV with Anna.

The National Security Advisor to the President, Colin Green, entered the room behind them. His gray hair was perfectly styled and his three-thousand dollar suit looked as if it had just been taken off a rack. “Outside everyone,” he said crisply. “I need to speak to her alone.”

As the others filed outside, Green adjusted his tie. It seemed like an unconscious gesture. He had an expensive gold ring with a dark stone on his finger, showing he was married.

“You’ve been watching the news?” asked Green. He moved to the couch but didn’t sit down.

“You’ve had me kidnapped,” Anna said.

The National Security Advisor stared at her. All warmth fled from him, leaving the naked, calculating man visible—the one who had climbed high in American political life. He took an audible breath and abruptly sat beside her. “I don’t think you understand the situation Ms. Chen.”

“Yes I do,” said Anna. “The Chinese destroyed two American carriers.”

“Chinese…er, why not Taiwanese extremists?” he asked.

“I have a request to make,” she said.

He frowned. “Now see here, Ms. Chen. You must understand—” He scowled. “Do you happen to know what it means if China and America hurl their ICBMs at each other? I know what the experts say. The laser defense systems and the anti-missile rockets would shoot down nearly ninety-five percent of the attack. I’ve read the reports. The Chinese are sure they have a superior system, and we have American know-how. Let me tell you something. That’s a load. The ICBM-people have their bright ideas on how to counter the defenses: reflector strips, spinning projectiles, aerosol clouds and armored ICBMs. It means it’s just like football, a game between offense and defense, and both sides are always coming up with something revolutionary that will change everything. Believe me, that’s all a load, too. It isn’t revolutionary and never will be because nothing works exactly how you think it’s going to. There is no perfect plan—ever. Therefore, if China and America hurl their ICBMs at each other, it would be a worldwide holocaust because more missiles would get through than either side believes. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want that on my conscience. In fact, I so don’t want that on my conscience that I’ll make some very hard decisions about people like you to save millions of others.”

“That’s why you kidnapped me?”

“You’re my China expert, right?” Green said.

After several heartbeats, Anna said, “I tried to warn you about—”

Green made a sharp gesture as he said, “That’s already water under the bridge. We’re a long ways past that, believe me.” He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his three-thousand dollar suit. Extracting one, he stuck the cigarette between his lips and clicked a lighter, inhaling as he lit it. Leaving the pack and lighter on the coffee table, he took the cigarette and exhaled smoke through his nostrils.

“You’re not a Buddhist or Taoist by any chance?” he asked.

“No.”

“And you’re my Chinese expert?”

Anna turned away from the smoke. It smelled foul. “I am not anyone’s expert anymore.”

He dragged on the cigarette, as he seemed to study the ceiling. “You and I have had what I call a miscommunication. We’ve both made some mistakes. I’m willing to admit mine. Why can’t you admit yours?”

“I didn’t make a mistake.”

“Ah, there you are. You’re too proud, too stubborn. Look at me, girl.” He put a hand on his chest. “I was trying to stop a war. I want to save the planet. Hell, I’m trying to save the human race from annihilating itself.”

“You have the same evidence I do. Surely, you must have realized we were about to be attacked.”

“I don’t like American oilrigs exploding,” Green said. “I don’t like having oil pollute our beaches with tons of crude killing generations of irreplaceable wildlife. But that’s a long, long way from wanting to start a nuclear war with China over it.”

“They’re about to invade Alaska.”

Green hunched toward her. “That’s an incredible leap of logic. It would mean war, a massive war. Look what happened when the Japanese struck at Pearl Harbor or al-Qaeda blew up the World Trade Center. We went ape, nuking two cities one time and invading countless countries the other. Can you imagine what we’d do if China actually invaded American soil?”

“We’re not as powerful now as we were then,” Anna said.

“Those are practically treasonous words. We’re America. We’d go to war with China for a hundred years if they did something like that.”

“Well,” said Anna, pointing at the TV. “Then we’d better get started, because they’re already at war with us.”

Green frowned as he stared at the TV. “Why do you think this happened? Can you tell me?”

“I’ve been telling you. It’s because of Alaska.”

“You’d better start explaining what that means instead of just blabbing the same words over and over.”

“Carriers are the best ships in our Navy,” Anna said.

“I have people who tell me differently. If you remember, we had to move our carriers away from Taiwan when the Chinese invaded there.”

“Because of the nearness of the Chinese airfields,” Anna said.

“Whatever,” Green said. “We’re not here to argue naval tactics. I want to know first, why would the Chinese dare to go to war with us? And second—well, answer me the first one first.”

“Food,” said Anna. “They’re hungry. But I know you know that. You’re one of the architects to the Grain Union.”

“Not one of,” said Green, “but the originator of it.”

“Admiral Carlos Fox of Argentina first suggested it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Green said testily. “Let’s go back to this idea about China needing food. We offered them a trade deal in Sydney. I helped draft the brief myself. We were getting ready to agree to a massive trade of oil for grain. Deng Fong himself came in secret, I think as a sign of their serious intent. Then, a few hours before the meeting, someone blows up our oilrig.”

“The Chinese blew it up.”

“That’s crazy! The Chairman runs China. I know he’s ailing, but everyone knows nothing happens without his permission.”

“Everyone may know that,” Anna said, “but the Chinese blew up the rig just the same.”

“Bah. Give me a good reason why they would do something so foolish. It doesn’t make sense.”

Anna pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I don’t have a good reason why. I don’t understand that part of it yet. What’s important is that they’re making these moves. They blew the oilrig, maybe even to stop the meeting in Sydney. Now they’ve destroyed two carriers, crippling our Navy. This all points to one thing: they’re attempting a surprise attack. Historically, it’s the Chairman’s trademark method. The proof is obvious: Siberia and Taiwan.”

“A surprise attack? Like Pearl Harbor?”

“Only much bigger,” said Anna. “Imagine a Pearl Harbor where the Japanese brought troops and invaded Hawaii in order to keep it.”

“And you’re saying they want Alaska why?”

“Do you even look at the source evidence uncovered by our agencies?” Anna asked.

Mashing the cigarette into a coffee saucer, Green scowled. “I don’t need a smart mouth, young lady. I need answers to give to the President. So far, you haven’t told me anything useful.”

“You should let me speak to the President,” Anna said. “I know the Chairman better than anyone else in Washington.”

Colin Green turned away, becoming thoughtful. Finally, he grunted as he stood. “I want you back at the White House. You’re to prepare a brief for the President. I thought I was stopping a war before. It looks like I was wrong. Will you serve your country?”

Anna knew then she was never going to get an apology from him for what he’d done. “Yes,” she said.

“Good. Then let’s go.”

MUKDEN, P.R.C.

Captain Han Qiang of the Chinese Space Service sat at his remote control panel. He was deep underground in the Command Bunker. The east wall of his cubicle held a large computer screen. On it was a collage of Japanese schoolgirls in plaid skirts and knee-high socks of varying colors.

He was a plump man in his late thirties, with the top two buttons of his uniform undone. Because of his thinning hair, he had shaved himself bald. He had several computers surrounding him. The Meng 950Z to the side contained his gaming information. He had just been playing Lord Yamato, his ninety-eighth level character, Ur-dominator, the deadliest soldier in the Nangsi World. He’d just logged off, because a priority AAA signal had beeped.

Cracking his knuckles, Captain Han Qiang activated the forward cameras of his Red Thunder missile. It was the latest in Chinese killer satellite technology and had rocketed up out of the thermosphere some time ago.

Han pressed his tongue against the gap between his front teeth, blowing air through them. He did it when he was excited. An image on the screen appeared. It showed the stars. The Red Thunder was in LEO, Low Earth Orbit. That was between the atmosphere and below the inner Van Allen radiation belt. In kilometers, that was one hundred and sixty to two thousand kilometers above the Earth’s surface.

Han shoved his fingers into twitch gloves. With practiced ease, he twitched his fingers. The signal left the tower built over the command center in Mukden. Han rotated his missile, making the star patterns change. The Earth appeared below on his screen, making Han blow harder between the gap of his two front teeth. He twitched more as he activated the grid pattern and external radar. Seconds later, the grid map appeared on his screen, with an American Osprey recon satellite blinking red at the left corner.

Han made rapid calculations, swiveled in his chair to glance at his second favorite Japanese girl and twitched a finger, applying thrust to the Red Thunder.

Eight hundred kilometers above the Earth, the Red Thunder missile hunted the Osprey satellite.

Captain Han was aware that Space Service and Army generals would be watching his progress in the Nexus Command Center. This was his moment to shine, and he grinned, relaxed because he was the best at what he did. This was nothing like running Ur-dominator in the computer games. This was pathetically simple. Still, he needed success here. It would help him gain his request of pit remote controlling with the latest virtual reality imaging.

The intercom light on his Red Thunder screen blinked pink. It meant a message came from Nexus Command.

“It’s moving,” a general told him.

“I’m tracking, sir,” said Captain Han, while clicking a button, making the microphone several centimeters from his lips live. He wore a Lord Yamato headset, using it instead of the Command Center electronics. Lord Yamato was Japanese and of superior workmanship. Han grinned. It was good the general had warned him of the recon satellite’s movement. Of course, he’d seen it moving. He’d simply waited for one of them to see it. Yes, that had frightened the old general and it must have made him wonder if the young captain could achieve success at this critical moment. This would improve his success because it would now stand higher in their eyes and possibly gain him a recommendation.

The precise reason why he needed to kill the American recon satellite, he did not know, although he had some ideas. Truthfully, he didn’t care why. It wasn’t any more real to him than Ur-dominator in Lord Yamato.

He saw that the recon satellite was over the Arctic Circle. The rumors must have merit concerning an invasion of Alaska.

Captain Han had been in the Space Service since his graduation from high school. He had gone to college on the Space Service’s coin. In the early days, he’d been in the Laser ABM branch of the service. ABM meant Anti-Ballistic Missile. Huge laser batteries stationed at strategic locations and connected to the power-grid protected China from Russian, Indian and American ICBMs. Once the enemy missiles lofted, the giant lasers would target them. Either they would target them during boost phase or in space during mid-flight, which could last as long as twenty-five minutes. Space-based mirrors high over China would help them shoot over-the-horizon. America also had a laser defense system. It wasn’t as good as China’s, but it was something and it would likely stop the majority of China’s ICBMs, if that day ever came.

Each country’s high-powered lasers also routinely burned down enemy satellites that attempted to fly over their country on spy missions. It was much harder for the Americans to snoop on China with recon satellites than, say, twenty years ago when it had been routine. China also found it difficult to spy on America via recon satellites. One answer had been to launch powerful boosters to send the spy satellites into higher and higher orbit.

Captain Han had heard rumors about a Moon base. The Moon would make an excellent warfare platform against the Earth. It held the high ground. It was much easier raining objects down on the Earth than sending objects up from the surface to attack, especially to attack the distant Moon.

Captain Han had thought about applying for a berth on the new Moon base, but construction was still a good five years from the happening stage. By then he hoped to be married.

“Captain!” the general said over the intercom.

“I’m working on it,” Captain Han said, lacing his voice with concern. He smirked. This couldn’t be easier.

The Osprey blinked red on the grid of his screen. It was no longer in the corner, but nearing the center. Over the center four squares was a target symbol. Once the enemy satellite was in that, he would depress a button.

He glanced at his timer. That should occur under five minutes.

After the minutes had passed, the general said over the intercom, “Kill it.”

Captain Han wanted to activate his microphone again and whisper one word: Patience. He was certain the general would not enjoy a captain telling him that, however. The general wanted the Osprey dead, didn’t he? Then he should let Ur-dominator do his work without interruption.

“Captain,” the general said. “The recon satellite is in position.”

Stung that anyone should tell Ur-dominator his business, Captain Han activated the microphone. “Respectfully, sir, this is an Osprey e7b3 model. It’s the Americans’ most heavily armored recon satellite. I do not simply wish to wound it, but destroy its capacity to scan.”

“It’s moving!” someone shouted in Nexus Command.

Nodding and feeling vindicated, Captain Han took a moment to glance at his favorite girl. Oh, he’d love to run his hands over those legs. One of these days—

“If it escapes, Captain,” the general said, “there will be severe repercussions.”

“Escapes?” Han asked. “Not from me, sir.”

Han didn’t know if the Osprey had a flee program or if an American operator now steered it away from him. In twenty-eight seconds, it wouldn’t matter. Given its flight path, the amount of fuel an Osprey carried and its known engine size, there were only a few vectors that would make sense in its flight.

Therefore—Captain Han twitched his gloved fingers. The signal stabbed into space at the speed of light. The Red Thunder missile obeyed orders like the good robot it was. Han watched his screen. The ret dot wobbled, seemed to veer slightly left, and then it fairly leaped into the center of his four target-symbol squares.

“You are mine,” said Han, as he blew through the gap between his two front teeth.

He depressed a button. The kill signal beamed from the tower in Mukden and into space. In seconds, the radio signal reached the box-like missile. Deep inside it, a fuse burned out. The delay lasted four more milliseconds. Then eight hundred and thirty-one kilometers above the surface of the Earth, the Chinese missile exploded. The four point three kilogram explosive expelled over ten thousand pellet-sized pieces of shrapnel in all directions. Fifty-seven of those pellets tore into the Osprey. Seventeen pierced the armor and destroyed the delicate recon equipment. The American satellite continued to exist, but as a torn piece of junk, unable to fulfill its mission.

In Mukden, fifty-meters below the ground in an old coalmine, Captain Han sagged back against his chair. A perfect kill—he’d done it again. He was Ur-dominator and no one could defeat him.

PLATFORM P-53, ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul Kavanagh didn’t know anything about the burning carriers in San Francisco Bay. Nor was he aware that high above him in Low Earth Orbit a Chinese satellite-killer had just destroyed an American Osprey.

The effectively destroyed Osprey continued its orbit and would soon fly over the North Pole. Its cameras and radar would have swept over the oilrig frozen in the Arctic ice. It would have scanned, but not anymore. Therefore, the activity several kilometers from the oilrig was presently hidden from any American or any oil company personnel.

On the pack ice, Paul Kavanagh trudged in his snow boots. It was cold, dark and lonely. In the distance winked the derrick lights, the only manmade structure for a thousand miles. Wind blew across the bleak landscape, occasionally blowing dry snow like sand across a desert.

Paul wore a fur-lined hood, a parka and thick gloves. He carried a flashlight in one hand and used a radar-gun in the other, checking the depth of the perimeter ice. Today, he took a wide circuit around the rig. He searched for unlikely cracks or pressure ridges, which would indicate ‘plates’ of ice grinding against each other. Grinding ice-plates built up pressure ridges just as the pushing continents had once caused mountains to rise into existence.

This far north, the ice froze hard and it froze thick. At first, it had been a terrible feeling, knowing that he walked across the Arctic Ocean. There was no land anywhere nearby, just ice. If suddenly the sun should appear and melt the ice….

It was a foolish but atavistic fear, nearly impossible to root out completely. It was foolish because for one thing, the sun couldn’t appear, wouldn’t appear for months. It wasn’t even winter yet. For another thing, even if it would appear, it lacked the heat to melt polar ice. Well, a sudden solar flare might give the sun enough heat to melt the ice. But a flare that large would also burn out almost all life on the planet just as had occurred in the old movie Knowing.

Paul scowled as he clicked the trigger, aiming the radar-gun at the ice.

Red Cloud is giving me makeshift work, hoping I get lost out here. The Algonquin wants me dead.

Paul halted and blew out his cheeks in frustration. Hooking the radar-gun onto his belt, he slid his rifle’s strap from his shoulder. He carried an old M14 rifle, a relic.

“In case you chance upon a polar bear,” Red Cloud had told him.

Yeah, right. Paul would have rather carried a big revolver with heavy caliber bullets. He certainly wasn’t going to spot a white bear at a distance. What was he supposed to do, lie down on the ice and sniper the polar bear to death? A heavy revolver or a machine pistol to pump bullets into the beast, that’s what he needed. This old relic was only good for one thing: punishment detail, which it what Red Cloud meant perimeter duty to be.

Paul wouldn’t have minded if he’d gotten full pay, and if he could have stayed here for another four months. He’d been fined, worked at half pay and he waited for the mechanic to repair the plane’s engine. At half pay, he hadn’t even made enough yet to cover his various expenses.

I didn’t shoot your friends during the war, Geronimo. Why take their deaths out on me?

Paul blinked in frustration at the ice. Of all things, it appeared as if Murphy was going to stay, but not him. Paul could hardly believe it.

Staring up at the stars, Paul stood there, surprised. The stars were beautiful. He craned his neck and stared, his gaze scanning back and forth, taking in the immensity of the universe. Slowly, a feeling of awe began to overtake him. I’m just a speck in the universe, a tiny mote crawling over the surface of a spinning rock.

His problems suddenly didn’t seem so big. Compared to the size of the universe, his anger almost seemed foolish. He felt small and insignificant. It was a bad feeling. Then it hit him, a terrible feeling of loss. It had felt this way the first couple of days after Cheri had told him she wanted a divorce.

Mikey…Cheri…why am I not at home with you? Why did we ever get divorced?

Paul Kavanagh shook his head. He wanted to start over. He wanted to get it right for once. What do I have to do differently? Where had his life gone wrong? Had it been before Quebec or after it? Maybe it had been in continuation school. Maybe it had been before that.

If I can’t get it right, I can at least make sure I help the two people I love.

Nodding, he pulled off his right glove and dug into his parka. He’d walked into Red Cloud’s hut several days ago when he knew the others were either asleep or outside. Paul had the odd schedule, often working alone as night guard. Rummaging in the Algonquin’s desk, he’d found his cell phone in the bottom drawer and taken it. If he was only getting half-pay, then he was only half of the company’s employee. As he stood alone out here on the pack ice, Paul took the cell phone out of his parka and managed a sour grin.

It hurt the cold corner of his mouth. He didn’t wear a ski mask anymore, letting his growth of whiskers do the job for him.

Look at this. He had a single bar on the cell. They had a cell-phone relay cube at the base. Someone must have forgotten to take it offline, which they usually did so people like him couldn’t phone home. It was a new policy since the destruction of the Californian oilrig. Many in the business were certain the blown oil well had been an inside job.

Paul clicked off his flashlight, hooking it to his belt. He then punched in Cheri’s numbers and listened to it ring.

“Paul?” she asked, answering the call.

“Hey baby, I’m still near the North Pole.”

“What do you mean ‘still’?” she asked. “Have they fired you?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong? I can hear by your voice that something is.”

Paul shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I’m going to give you my account number. There isn’t much left in it, maybe five hundred bucks now.”

“You got fired,” she said, sounding dispirited.

“My boss is an Algonquin warrior.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“I’m trying to tell you. Algonquin—Red Cloud fought in Quebec, in the Canadian Shield. Algonquin is an Indian name,” he said, “a tribal name. They fought with the French-Canadian separatists. I remember going up against some Algonquin soldiers during the war. They were sneaky in the woods. I remember they trapped Joe and we had to fight our way out.”

“You fought against the French Indians?” Cheri asked.

“Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

“So your boss is an Indian, too?”

“One that hates U.S. Marines.”

“He fired you?”

“Technically, not yet, but he will soon.”

“He can’t just fire you because you’re a Marine, or were a Marine.”

“You’d be surprised what these guys can do. Anyway, that’s not important right now. I’m going to give you my account number. I want you to empty it and use the money.”

“…I don’t know,” Cheri said.

“Do you have a paper and pen?”

“Okay,” she said. “Just a minute.”

“Sure,” Paul said, hearing her set the phone on a counter. He tried to picture his ex. What time was it over there?

He heard a click and then the line went dead.

“Hello?” Paul asked. Nothing—the line was pure dead. “Stupid phone,” he said, punching in the numbers again. He listened, but it was still dead. “What the heck?” he said. Then he saw the bars on his cell—or the lack of them.

Paul’s features tightened. Someone had just taken the relay cube offline. Now Cheri would think he’d hung up on her.

“That’s it,” Paul said. It was the final straw.

He thrust the cell into his parka, shoved his hand back into the thick glove and picked up his M14. He slung the leather strap over his shoulder and started marching for the base. It was time for a real showdown with Red Cloud. The Algonquin wasn’t going to fire him and the French Indian was going to pay him full wages. If Paul had to shove a gun in Red Cloud’s belly to do it, he was going to persuade the Algonquin the hard way. Whatever it took.

“Firing me is discrimination,” Paul said aloud. Cheri was right. Red Cloud couldn’t fire him just because he’d been in the Marines. That was total B.S.

Paul marched back toward the base. After taking perhaps three hundred steps, he heard crackling sounds in the distance. Before he was aware of it, Paul thudded onto the ice on his belly, with the M14 in his hands. He stared wide-eyed at the derricks. The nearest one had a flashing red light that winked on and off, reminding him of an airplane warning light.

That sound: it had been small-arms machinegun fire. There was a machinegun on the Algonquin’s wall. Was Red Cloud out test-firing it?

Paul cocked his head as he heard the sound again. It wasn’t just one man firing a machinegun. It sounded as if an entire squad was opening up—killing.

Terrorists, Paul thought.

Adrenalin pumped through him. He found himself clutching his rifle and staring through the darkness at the frozen oilrig.

“Think,” he hissed at himself.

How did the terrorists get out here? Okay, there were three ways. They walked. They flew or they swam under the ice. The last way meant a submarine.

So it was Iran. “Wait, wait,” he whispered to himself.

Terrorists could have bought a plane, a smaller one, or several such planes. They could have landed several miles away and marched to the base. Yeah, that made a lot more sense than coming in by submarine.

Paul scrambled to his feet and began jogging toward the base. The cold air hit his lungs almost right away. It reminded him of Quebec. Hard memories and harder-learned lessons began surfacing. There were enemy combatants out there. It made his flesh tingle with the fear and adrenalin that always hit just before he knew he was going into a firefight.

Paul chambered a round. He had the one magazine in his rifle and two more in his pocket.

Dirty terrorists, killing oilmen trying to make a living for their families. Paul wondered briefly if this was Greenpeace. Some of the environmental people could get pretty worked up about these things. They might have more expertise than al-Qaeda terrorists.

Paul heard shouts then and heavier machinegun fire. It sounded like the enemy had set-up kill zones.

Are they shooting everyone?

Skidding to a stop, Paul panted as cold mist steamed out of his mouth. He’d better start thinking. If the terrorists had infrared goggles, he would be exposed as he ran straight into the base.

I can’t crawl all the way there.

He shook his head. He doubted they would expect anyone out on the ice so far away. If they had infrared sight, they’d check several times and find it clear. Later, he’d surprise them.

The drifting shouts and the heavy machinegun fire—Paul lowered his head and began running. Half-pay or full, he was here and the enemy was killing good guys, the ones he’d been hired to protect.

I have an M14. Now it’s time to use it.

Twenty minutes later, Paul was stretched behind a pressure ridge, a mound of ice. He peered over it, with his rifle propped against the ice. The M14 had its uses. It was the last American battle rifle, meaning the last that fired full-power rifle ammunition. In this case, that was .308 Winchester. The rifle had a twenty-round detachable box magazine, and altogether weighed about twelve pounds. It had good accuracy at long-range, that range being eight hundred and seventy-five yards with optics. Paul used the selector switch and chose single-shot fire.

In the darkness of an Arctic night, the oilrig looked deserted. Then he saw a trio of men exit one of the buildings. In their parkas and heavy pants, they looked like stuffed dolls. Something seemed different about them, strange.

Using his teeth, Paul pulled off a glove. Carefully, he took off the caps to both ends of his Aimpoint 3000 red-dot scope. There was a special oil-film over each lens, which was supposed to keep them from fogging. Holding his breath, Paul edged his eye to his end of the Aimpoint 3000.

The roly-poly men leaped into view. Some of the base’s lights had been shot out, but not all. Using the illumination, Paul saw what was different. It was the hats. They were fur, but didn’t cover the ears. On the front of each fur hat was a single star.

Blacksand didn’t use a star on their hats, nor did the oilmen.

Paul studied the three men. They looked Asian. Maybe they were Chinese or Korean. Either way, that meant Greater China. As that hit him, Paul rolled onto his back and slid fully behind the pressure ridge. Staring up at the stars, he tried to think this through. Why would Chinese soldiers kill oilmen? How did the soldiers get here?

“Does it matter?” he whispered. The fact they were here was important, not how or even why.

Slowly, Paul rolled back onto his belly and propped the M14 on the pressure ridge. He studied the three soldiers. They carried QBZ-23s. Qing Buqiang Zidong.

Paul read gun magazines, and he’d read about the QBZ-23 before. It had been designed from the QBZ-95, first made in 1995. The QBZ-23 had been developed in 2023. Each assault rifle had a bullpup configuration. The weapon’s action and curved magazine were located behind the grip and trigger assembly. The magazine held forty 5.8 x 42mm DBP24, which meant Standard Rifle Cartridge 2024. Older-style bullets used an eject-able cartridge case. The DBP24 was embedded in a solid cake of propellant, which was consumed once the bullet was fired. Case-less ammo lowered bulk and weight, and it increased the number of rounds per magazine.

Paul began scanning the camp. He saw dead men lying on the ice. There were oilmen and some Blacksand guards. There by the nearest derrick, different Asians were attaching something to the metal. If he were going to bet, he’d call it explosives.

Paul turned his head away from the scope and blew the hottest breath he could muster against his fingers. He had several options. Go in and try to surrender. The dead men on the snow made it seem like a bad idea. If these were Chinese or Korean soldiers or Special Forces, would they bother taking him prisoner? He doubted it. So how was he supposed to get home?

Paul Kavanagh laughed to himself. He wasn’t getting home. Whom was he fooling? He’d taken a one-way ticket to the North Pole, or nearer to it then he was ever going to get in his lifetime. Yeah, he’d been screwed many times, but this was the worst screwing of them all.

“Are you just going to take it?” he asked himself. Heck no. You’re going to fight and take down as many as those creeps as you can. Besides, they had cut his connection to Cheri. She needed the money and now she’d never get it.

“Say your prayers, boys,” he whispered. As he squeezed the trigger, Paul didn’t know it, but he was grinning fiercely.

The rifle boomed and kicked him hard in the shoulder. It was a relic, but the M14 was powerful and it was the right kind of weapon for what needed doing now.

One of the three roly-poly soldiers trudging to the derrick where the demolition men worked fell down hard. He had a hole in his back, one between his shoulder blades. Paul saw it all in his scope. Swiveling the M14 slightly, he fired again. Another Chinese soldier hit the ice. The last one spun around, dropped to one knee and lifted his assault rifle. It had a fancy scope, fancy enough that Paul suspected it had infrared capability. A three-bullet burst ripped in the night from the QBZ-23. It told Paul he was dealing with a professional. Most surprised men would have fired the entire magazine all at once. That soldier had been carefully taught fire control.

As the three bullets ripped out of the assault rifle, Paul saw flames erupt from the barrel. He fired, but missed. Finally, the enemy combatant had the wits to drop onto his belly. The Chinese or Korean soldier with the star on his fur hat put the fancy scope to his eye. He began sweeping his rifle, no doubt looking for the shooter. Holding his breath, Paul squeezed the trigger. It was the best shot of the night, a hole in the man’s face, making him relax dead on the ice.

Ducking behind the pressure ridge, Paul crawled like mad to a new location. There was no telling how many of the enemy were out there and there was no telling what kind of weaponry they had. A heavy machinegun would make quick work of him, pressure ridge or no.

Five shots in rapid succession sounded. Paul thrust himself flat on the ice. He hadn’t heard any hits nearby. He hated this waiting, this not knowing.

With an oath, he threw himself at the ridge, putting his rifle on it. Using the scope, he scanned the base.

The shots—he saw a man kneeling by two Chinese soldiers. They were near the derrick, the one the two-man team had been strapping demolitions to. The man had a big gun in his hand. This man lacked the fur hat without earflaps. He had a woolen hat, the kind everyone at the oilrig used. With a shock, Paul recognized Red Cloud. The Algonquin had killed the two demo-men.

Using the Aimpoint 3000, Paul scanned the camp. He saw two more roly-poly soldiers crawling toward Red Cloud. Taking quick aim, Paul fired, missed, and fired the rest of the magazine, killing one while the other leaped up and ran like mad out of sight.

As Paul shoved in another magazine, he heard three shots. They were the same kind of shots he’d heard before. Several seconds later, Red Cloud appeared from behind a hut. The Algonquin aimed his gun at the stars and fired twice. Then he cupped his hands, shouting.

Paul barely heard the words: “Hurry in, Kavanagh! We have to leave before the others come back.”

-8-

Decisions

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna Chen sat alone in a large room in the White House basement. The room contained a massive table and big, cushioned chairs. There were old-style books on a shelf, and a wall computer-scroll on mute. On the scroll, it showed Susan Salisbury’s earnest features as she explained something to the audience.

Was it possible to stop the coming war? Anna couldn’t see how. It still shocked her to see the two wrecked carriers. The Chairman was deadly serious, and war with the most populous and richest country on Earth was about to begin.

A pair of double doors opened abruptly. Three men strode in. The first was Colin Green. The second was the President of the United States, a tallish, good-looking man with gray along his sides. He seemed like a movie actor to Anna. The third was a large, overweight man with wisps of messy hair scattered over his otherwise bald head. He was the Secretary of State and wore a rumbled suit.

The Secretary of State halted, and he glanced at Green. “Is this another sexual harassment case among your staff?”

“No, nothing of the kind,” said Green. “Please forgive him the rude joke,” he told Anna.

She nodded guardedly.

Colin Green introduced Anna, telling the others she had a PhD in Chinese Studies and that she’d written Socialist-Nationalist China.

“An informative book,” the Secretary of State said. He slid out a chair and sat down heavily.

“Mr. President,” Green said, holding out a chair for him.

The President waved Green aside, sitting down without help. He sat across the table from Anna, inspecting her.

“Colin tells me you knew something about the attack before it happened,” the President said.

Anna glanced at Green before she said, “Yes, sir.”

“She should have told someone in authority,” the Secretary of State said.

“A good idea,” Green said quickly. “At least she forwarded a memo. I’m sure she thought that was good enough. It would have been under normal circumstances. Ms. Chen,” Green said, turning toward Anna, “You have my full permission to come and see me at any time if you have further information.”

“Thank you, sir,” Anna said.

“Enough, Colin,” the President said. “Ms. Chen, you believe the Chinese attacked our carriers?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. And she outlined what she had once told Colin Green.

“In your opinion, why would they make such an underhanded attack against our carriers?” the President asked.

“I believe the Chinese are using their naval exercise as a screen for a sudden land attack,” Anna replied. “They’ve loaded up an unusual number of naval brigades, while the Chinese Army rolled a regiment of T-66 multi-turreted tanks onto fast cargo ships. Maybe as telling, the ice-mobile formations in Ambarchik Base in East Siberia have been receiving mass air-shipments of supplies and airmobile companies.”

“You’re better informed than the Pentagon,” the President said, bemused.

“Sir, I believe the Chinese objective is Alaska and particularly the oilfields.”

“Tell me why?”

“I’m not completely certain as to why,” Anna said. “But I believe the key is the oilfields in Prudhoe Bay and ANWAR, together with the oilrigs in the Arctic Ocean. They represent a large supply of crude. Maybe the Chinese are trying to corner the oil market. Their interior rice riots likely frightened the Party. Maybe with the oil market cornered, they can dictate world food prices.”

The President nodded. “I wish I would have learned of this sooner. Now with two carriers destroyed…I don’t see how we can stop this diplomatically.”

Anna leaned forward. She’d been thinking about this for some time. “Sir, I have a suggestion. The Politburo’s Ruling Committee is seldom unanimous. There are strong personalities on the committee vying for power as the Chairman’s grip weakens. Deng Fong, Jian Shihong, Admiral—” She shook her head. “The names don’t matter now. My point is that maybe you can shake their resolve.”

“I’m not sure I follow you,” the President said.

“I can’t believe Deng Fong is in favor of war. Maybe you can scare the others with American resolve. Show the Chairman this was a mistake.”

“The Joint Chiefs are showing me how to do that, Ms. Chen. They talk about an ASBM assault on the Chinese Fleet.”

“You just spoke about fixing this diplomatically, sir. I realize blood has been spilled, and it is hard to reset the clock. But this is Greater China we’re talking about.”

“What is your point?”

Anna glanced at the Secretary of State. He looked stern, angry. Colin Green seemed worried. The President, anger smoldered in his eyes.

“Sir,” Anna said, “I suggest you call the Chairman. He will want to speak with you.”

“Why?” asked Clark.

Anna said this carefully as the President and his advisors were powerful men, proud men. “The Chairman believes himself to be very persuasive. In both the Siberian War and against Taiwan, he lied to those he was attacking. He lied in order to get them to drop their guard. Both Siberia and Taiwan were too weak to resist Chinese arms for long. Therefore, the leaders of both countries were eager for any possible solution short of war. Those leaders took a risk and believed the Chairman’s promises. They were psychologically primed so they grasped at straws. The Chairman, however, believes he possesses a golden tongue, that it was his speaking gift that bewildered the Siberian and Taiwanese leaders into making foolish decisions. Several analysts now see this as his signature tactic. In the Tokyo Interview, the Chairman said that a few words leading others in the wrong direction saved thousands of Chinese lives. He asked which was worse, to speak falsely in a needed time or to let others spill his people’s precious blood.”

“You believe the Chairman will lie to me?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“He will attempt to trick me, as you say.”

Anna nodded.

“Why should I speak with him then?” the President asked.

“To give him a lie,” Anna said, “to attempt to sow discord in the Ruling Committee.”

“…go on,” said the President.

“During the call you should tell him you’ve strengthened Alaska with secret reinforcements. Tell the Chairman that you know he’s attacking, that you’ve known of his buildup all along and have taken steps accordingly.”

“That will scare him?”

“Scare is probably the wrong word,” Anna said. “Instead, it might strengthen those who counsel the Chairman against a war with America.”

The President stared at his hands.

“It’s worth consideration,” the Secretary of State said. “Fight fire with fire. You have a subtle mind, Ms. Chen.”

Anna nodded demurely.

The President stood up. Everyone else rose with him. “I appreciate your candor, Ms. Chen.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“Keep her near,” Clark told Green. “We may need more insight into the Chairman’s thinking.” Then, without another word, Clark, the Secretary of State and Colin Green took their leave.

PLATFORM P-53, ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul Kavanagh dropped his M14 on the ice beside a dead Asian, the one with a bullet-hole in his back. It had been more than a few years since Quebec. Paul had forgotten some of his combat habits. One habit came back right away, however, looting the dead.

At first, in Quebec, it had been hard touching a dead body, especially if you’d made the corpse yourself. There was something mysterious about a dead man. You certainly didn’t want to touch it. To go through a corpse’s pockets—some Marines hadn’t been able to do it, ever.

Paul swallowed as he nerved himself. You don’t have time to screw around. You need better weapons. It’s a simple as that.

He picked up the corpse’s dropped assault rifle, the one with a fancy scope. There were some Chinese symbols on the sides. With an oath, Paul went through the corpse’s pockets, doing it fast. It made him feel soiled, and there was the fear the corpse would sit up suddenly and grab his wrist. It was a deeply superstitious feeling, one difficult to shake despite its impossibility. Lastly, he fumbled with the belt, unbuckling it from the corpse. Hurriedly, Paul buckled the belt around his waist. It held extra curved magazines, a bayonet, two grenades, a canteen and a small, unknown device. He raised the butt of the assault rifle to his shoulder and peered through the activated scope. He’d guessed right—infrared. The barracks and sheds were blue-colored.

“Hurry,” Red Cloud said, who looted his own corpse several feet away. “We don’t have much time.”

Ignoring the Algonquin, Paul scanned the rest of the barracks, derricks and then out on the ice, using the infrared scope. There wasn’t anyone anywhere. It was eerie. Where had the enemy gone? How had these soldiers even gotten here in the first place? No one had teleportation devices that Paul knew of.

And why is Red Cloud alive while everyone else is dead?

Paul brought the assault rifle to waist level as Red Cloud neared. He sure wasn’t going to trust the Algonquin. The Indian still held the big revolver in his hand, although he shouldered an assault rifle. Paul aimed his assault rifle at Red Cloud’s midsection.

The Algonquin halted, frowning, smart enough to keep his gun lowered. He raised his eyes to gaze into Paul’s. Red Cloud’s face was emotionless. “Are you a traitor?”

“Yeah, right,” Paul said. “You are.”

“Because I’m a dirty Indian?”

“Cause you’re alive and everyone else is dead,” Paul said with heat.

“What about you?”

“Yeah, what about me?”

“Your logic proves that you must also be a traitor.”

Paul thought about that. “So what happened then?”

Turning, gazing at the derricks, Red Cloud said, “They attacked from the north. They swept in silently just as U.S. Marines did in Black Rock country, killing everything. I looked out my window and saw what was happening. I hid, waiting for my chance, just as when Marines struck our camp during the war. When most of the shooters left, leaving the others to rig their explosives, then I came out to have my revenge. I think several of those radioed back before we killed them. The others will return. We must leave before that.”

“Yeah, Geronimo, leave to where?”

“I will not go back to Canada,” Red Cloud said. “They have a warrant there for my arrest and execution. Greenland is too far and in Siberia they speak Russian or Chinese.”

“So we hike to the mainland?” asked Paul, “to Dead Horse?”

Nodding, Red Cloud said, “We must hurry before the Chinese return.”

“How do you know they’re Chinese?”

“Look at them,” Red Cloud said, pointing at the dead. “Do you notice the tiger-head patch? These are White Tiger Commandos, China’s fiercest warriors.”

“So how did these Commandos get all the way out here? By walking across the ice?”

“The ‘how’ is unimportant,” Red Cloud said. “They are here. So we must leave—now.”

Paul stared at the bleak snowscape, at the pressure ridges and whispering particles of snow blowing across the ice. “Alaska has to be four hundred miles away. We can’t walk that far.”

“A man does what he must,” Red Cloud said. “To live, I will try walking the distance. Better, however, to see if any of the snowcats are operable.”

Paul studied the base. White Tiger Commandos had attacked, huh. He wondered what the point of it was. Had the Chinese attacked the Californian oilrig, too? Paul’s eyes widened. Why would the Chinese be destroying American oil wells? That was an act of war. War with China—this could be the start of World War Three.

“Do not think you can remain here and summon help through the radio,” Red Cloud said. “The White Tigers have used demolitions. They mean to destroy the base. To wait here is to wait for death.”

“Come on,” Paul said, heading for the nearest building. He believed the sneaky Algonquin now. He didn’t like Red Cloud anymore than before, but if a man were going to try to cross four hundred miles of polar ice, he’d probably want someone like Red Cloud with him. The Algonquin was more a native of this land than he was, that’s for sure.

“Hurry,” Paul said. “We have to see if anyone else is alive.”

The first barrack held a nasty surprise. Paul opened the door. In the murk, he saw a wire move and heard a click inside.

“Down!” he shouted, twisting, dragging Red Cloud with him.

As Paul hit the ice, the barrack’s roof blew off as flames roared into the Arctic night. One side of the barrack blasted apart, screeching metal. Hot pieces of shrapnel blew through the air.

From where Paul lay, he blinked groggily. The shockwave had rolled him backward ten feet. The Commandos rigged a booby trap. He wondered for whom.

“You okay?” he asked.

Red Cloud grunted as he sat up, his fingers probing his torso and legs.

Paul sat up beside him. “We got lucky.”

“We must hurry now, or we are dead forever.”

Dragging themselves upright, they staggered for the main garage. Paul stared north into the Arctic darkness. The stars were bright on the white ice, giving more illumination than seemed possible.

As they reached the garage, Paul said, “I’ll search for booby traps. You keep watch for more of them.”

“I will search, too.”

“Listen, Geronimo, I was in the Marines. We set our share of booby traps, so I know what to look for. You’re more used to this ice world and can probably spot something that’s out of place faster than I can. So let’s each stick to our areas of expertise, okay?”

Red Cloud grunted, and he gave a short nod. Slipping the assault rifle from his shoulder, he turned on the infrared scope and walked north.

Paul took out his flashlight. He was breathing hard as he opened the garage door. Washing his beam of light into the interior, he groaned as he spied the snowcats. Most of the tracked vehicles’ hoods were up. That didn’t bode well. He moved carefully around the strewn junk on the floor. Soon, he discovered that all the engines’ hoses and plugs had been cut. These White Tigers were bastards.

There had to be extras hoses and plugs somewhere. Or maybe he could jury-rig something. Paul worked fast as he went from machine to machine. He found a needed hose in the back of one, and there were extra plugs in the storage room. Taking a toolkit from a cat, he began working on the least damaged engine.

Maybe five minutes later, he heard a groan. Pulling his head from out under the hood, Paul cursed softly. He grabbed the rifle and heard the groan a second time. It came from the storage area.

Walking in the murk, with dim light from a derrick shining through a small window, Paul approached a closet. Was a White Tiger Commando waiting in there for him? Should he fire a few rounds through the closed door just to make sure?

Not wanting to call out and alert whoever was hiding, Paul stood indecisive for a moment. Finally, he put his hand on the latch and threw open the door.

Something shiny rose in back. There was a click like a cocking hammer. Paul whirled away, slamming his back against the wall as a boom went off. Despite his ringing ears and tripping heart, Paul heard muttered words. They were spoken in English, and he knew that voice.

“Murphy! It’s me! Paul Kavanagh! Quit shooting!”

He heard another muffled curse and something heavily metallic clattered on the cement floor. A second later, a body thumped onto the cement.

Paul clicked on his flashlight and peered in. Murphy lay face down on the floor, with blood oozing from his parka.

“Kavanagh!” shouted Red Cloud from outside.

“It’s Murphy!” shouted Paul. “He must have thought I was Chinese. Now he’s out. Come in here. I need your help.”

“The Chinese are coming,” Red Cloud said, as he entered the garage.

“What?” asked Paul. Did these guys have long-distance helicopters?

“There’s a platoon of them,” Red Cloud said. “We don’t have much time.”

“Are you sure?”

“I saw their submarines surface.”

Submarines. Right. That makes sense.

“I saw two submarines,” Red Cloud said. “First lasers stabbed out of the ice. Then the submarines broke through. After the subs settled, soldiers boiled out of the towers, climbing down. We have ten minutes before they arrive.”

Now we know how they got here. “We have to load up with supplies,” Paul said.

“We must leave now or we die.”

“Drag Murphy into the cat over there,” Paul said. “I fixed it. Then drive to the mess. Make sure you keep the cat’s lights off.”

Without waiting for an answer, Paul raced for the garage exit. The Algonquin had better not leave without him. “I’m going to scrounge us a bag of grub!” he shouted. “Okay?”

For an answer, Red Cloud disappeared into the closet where Murphy lay.

***

Panting and with sweat dripping from his face, Paul heaved three canvas bags into the back of the snowcat. Then he banged the back shut and raced around to the side, piling in on the passenger side. Red Cloud started the vehicle moving as Paul slammed his door shut.

The snowcat’s tank-like treads lurched and the compact vehicle clanked south, leaving the gravel skirt of the oilrig. They left behind the dead and any of those who might be wounded and unconscious. That grated on Paul. Marines didn’t leave their own behind. The Corps had drilled the idea into him.

Murphy groaned from where he lay in back. Blood still seeped from his gunshot wound.

Rolling down his window, thrusting half his torso outside, Paul aimed the assault rifle north. He used the scope regularly, without infrared. Past the derricks and far out on the ice he saw two squat metal towers. They were the ‘sails’ of two Chinese submarines. The submarines had punched through the ice, which should have taken some doing. Paul had read somewhere that a sub couldn’t break through ice more than three-and-a-half feet thick. He’d been doing the radar-testing of the perimeter ice-thickness earlier. The ice here was much thicker than three-and-a-half feet. It must have been the reason why the Chinese had used lasers first, either melting the ice or breaking it apart. Marching from the two submarines were roly-poly White Tiger Commandos, more than twenty and each using snowshoes. They were almost to the northern edge of the oilrig’s gravel skirt.

He spied pinpoints of lights from the rifles. The White Tigers had spotted them and they were firing.

“They know we’re escaping,” Paul said. “They see us.”

Red Cloud spoke in Algonquin. Paul hoped it was an Indian curse, one with power.

Paul glanced back again. “Crap!” he said.

“What is it?”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Speak to me, Kavanagh.”

Paul saw a bright dot rise from one of the submarine’s sails. There was another fiery dot from the other submarine. Paul brought up the assault rifle. He caught the object in his scope. It was an armored White Tiger in a bulky battle-jetpack. Paul had read articles about them. After decades of effort, the Japanese had finally invented a rugged, fuel-efficient one. Paul had a swift view of the Commando using an armrest joystick-control and a bulky helmet with gizmos attached. The Commando moved swiftly through the air toward them. It had to be freezing up there.

“They’re sending two jetpack flyers after us!” Paul shouted.

He lowered the assault rifle. Something red winked from the first flyer. On a suspicion, Paul glanced at the side of their cat. There was a bright red dot on it.

“He’s using a laser!” Paul shouted. “He’s going to guide a missile into us.”

Red Cloud slammed on the brakes.

Paul jammed his back against the brace of the open window. “What are you doing?” he shouted, as the snowcat came to a halt.

“There’s a Blowdart launcher in the back,” Red Cloud shouted.

Paul slid inside, thrust his assault rifle against the door and lunged over the back of his seat. He saw the single-shot Blowdart tube. It was like an old LAWS rocket. He grabbed the launcher, opened his door and jumped outside. The engine roared as the left tread spun, rotating the cat in place. Then both treads tore up ice and snow as the cat clacked away at a right angle from its former position.

With one knee on the ice, Paul activated the Blowdart.

Then he saw an orange bloom from one of the submarine’s towers. That had to be someone firing an ATGM, an Anti-Tank Guided Missile. The flames behind the missile showed its increasing speed, and that it came straight at the snowcat.

Despite his shaking arms, Paul lifted the Blowdart tube and peered through the scope. He spied one of the flyers hanging up there, no doubt ‘painting’ the cat with his guidance laser. Paul squeezed the trigger. The launching-tube shivered. It was like a recoilless rifle. Flames flickered out of the back of the tube as the missiles sped upward at the flyers.

It must have panicked them or caused the flyers to jink like crazy. Whatever, it meant that neither kept their laser targeted on the snowcat. The Blowdart must have badly surprised the flyers.

Then Paul remembered the missile coming for them. He looked up and watched slack-jawed as the submarine-launched missile roared overhead. It was loud, a flash of metal, and it was so close he felt a momentary wash of heat. Several hundred yards behind him, the missile hit the ice and exploded.

Dropping the empty tube, Paul picked his assault rifle off the ice. He scanned the sky. There was only one flyer now.

Bringing up the assault rifle, Paul flicked on the infrared. The scope had a range-calculator. The flyer was over a thousand yards away. That was much too far to think he could hit the man. Still, he began firing three-bullet bursts. In seconds, Paul tore out the magazine and shoved in another.

More orange blooms now appeared on the two submarine sails.

With his teeth clenched, Paul kept firing. Whether it was his bullets or the Arctic cold, he didn’t know. Maybe the pilot wasn’t familiar enough with the jetpack under combat conditions, or maybe having someone firing at him panicked the man. All Paul knew was that the flyer plummeted toward the ice.

The next two submarine-launched missiles veered to the right, exploding in the darkness.

By then, Paul was sprinting to the snowcat. Would the Algonquin leave him behind? Did Red Cloud hate him that much?

The cat lurched to a halt even as Paul wondered. The machine began backing up. Paul glanced at the sky. No more jetpack flyers appeared. Just as good, no more missiles launched from the towers. Maybe whoever fired at them had to order up more missiles from within the submarine.

Exhausted, Paul climbed into the passenger seat. “I nailed two!” he shouted, slamming his door shut.

Red Cloud was hunched over the wheel. His eyes were hard on the ice before them. “Ready?” he asked.

Paul yanked on his seatbelt. “Let’s get out of here while we can.” He laughed as he patted the assault rifle between his knees. “They’ll probably chase us. But at least we’ll make it hard on them before we die.”

Red Cloud gave him a single glance. Then he returned to staring outside as the treads began to clank.

BEIJING, P.R.C.

The atmosphere was tense as a bodyguard wheeled the Chairman into the conference chamber. On one side of a large oaken table sat Jian Shihong, Xiaodan of the Police and a red-eyed Admiral Qingshan. On the other side of the table were Deng Fong and the Army Chief of Staff.

Around the large room, the curtains were drawn against the gloomy weather outside. It had rained for three days and the weatherman predicted hail tonight.

Jian kept his hands on the table near his glass of mineral water. He yearned to fidget, to release some of the anxiety that seethed in him. There had been another rice riot yesterday. This time the people hadn’t simply looted the rice factories and stormed into the stores. Leaders had spontaneously arisen and several mobs had attempted to burn down police stations. News of it had leaked onto the blogosphere, with several cell-phone videos racing around the internet.

Jian had been urging the Chairman to order a full internet blackout until the emergency was over.

During the meeting, Deng had attacked him cleverly, repeatedly bringing up the ongoing food disaster. Deng had the gall to stare at him as he talked about full-blown famine.

Fortunately, the Chairman had already moved Jian out of the Agricultural Ministry and had made him a Minister without Portfolio. Jian had become the de facto coordinator of the Alaska Invasion. Therefore, he kept telling Deng to bring these food-supply matters to the new Minister of Agriculture.

The Chairman appeared both worse and better than the day he’d made the decision to invade Alaska. His skin had an unhealthy shiny quality. And the pain creasing his features from his ramrod posture almost made Jian feel sorry for the old man. The Chairman’s eyes, however, radiated power to a greater degree than before.

As the Chairman entered, Deng turned to his computer, eagerly reading something.

Jian yearned to know what it was. The man had an agile mind and attacked from many directions.

I will only be happy when the police drag Deng screaming from this room. A gun pressed against the back of his head, and boom—Deng Fong’s corpse will flop about like a catfish. On that day, I will sigh with relief.

“Sir,” Deng said, not even having the decency to allow the Chairman to make himself comfortable again. The bodyguard knelt and rearranged the plaid blanket around the Chairman’s useless legs.

“You have news?” the Chairman asked. The old man no longer whispered, but spoke crisply.

“Sir,” Deng said, “the Secretary of the U.N. has phoned. She urges you to sit down with the Americans and talk out any differences we might have.”

“The woman is presumptuous,” Jian said. It would ruin everything if there were peace now. He needed war, a highly successful war if he were to oust the Chairman and become the new ruler of China. During these past days, he had seen a way to gaining total power. But for that to happen, he needed a long war.

“I am baffled,” Deng said. “In what way is the U.N. Secretary’s gift presumptuous?”

“There are no open hostilities between our nations for her to fix,” Jian said. “She is like a dog that sticks its nose up a woman’s dress, sniffing where it isn’t wanted. I am sorry to say, but to me that is presumptuous”

“You surprise me,” Deng said. “Do we not attack America?”

“There is no ‘open’ conflict between our nations yet,” Jian said. “That is what I’m saying.”

“Yet the U.N. Secretary has drawn the correct conclusion,” Deng said, “as she no doubt witnessed the destruction of the American carriers.”

“We preempt the worst of the grain-hoarding nations,” Jian said. “That is true. But as yet there is no open conflict.”

“The Secretary desires world peace,” Deng said, “particularly peace between the two largest nuclear powers. She must hate the glacial period as much as we, since China like much of the world can no longer feed its starving population. Imagine a world sunk in a full-blown ice age as a nuclear winter howls across the continents.”

“The Americans know we have an impenetrable ICBM defense,” Jian said. “For that reason there will be no nuclear winter, no true ice age, because the Americans would never dare to launch their missiles.”

“This is excellent news,” Deng said. “Yes, your prophetic gift reassures me entirely. Please, former Agricultural Minister, could you focus your far-seeing powers to help find the Chinese people enough food to eat?”

Jian seethed inwardly. The clever intriguer was a master at these conversations. “We will have enough food,” he said, “once we force the Americans to open their storehouses to us.”

“Enough of this,” the Chairman said. “We have important matters to discuss.”

“I am at your command, sir,” Jian said.

“We all are,” Deng said.

Jian forced his mouth shut in order to forestall more words. A crease of irritation had deepened the lines on the Chairman’s forehead. Instead of words, Jian now hunched toward the Chairman. He sat nearest the leader, at least on his side of the table. Jian folded his hands, trying to radiate obedience to the Chairman’s will.

Deng, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, was too proud to play that game. He sat in his high-backed chair like a foreign potentate. He sipped mineral water and picked up a spiced wafer, popping it onto his tongue.

“I am about to begin a conference call with the President of the United States,” the Chairman informed them.

“Do you know the reason for his call?” Deng asked.

Jian scowled at Deng, trying to project to the others the unforgivable nature of the slight of speaking to the Chairman before being spoken to.

“As stated earlier,” the Chairman said, “we destroyed two American carriers. The nature of the call would therefore seem obvious. The President will seek reinsurances that we didn’t do it.”

“I have scanned their news agencies,” Deng said. “I believe they know we did it.”

“I’m not sure I can agree you,” Jian said, unable to contain himself. “Their pundits argue between themselves, offering several different reasons of why the attack occurred. The foremost theory is that Taiwanese extremists wish to foster hatred and discord between our two great nations.”

“Do you truly believe the President of the United States can believe such twaddle?” asked Deng.

“Your words surprise me,” Jian said. “Our Chairman used exactly such sleight-of-mind imaginations to confuse the Russians during our invasion of Siberia. Our Great Leader also backed down the Americans so their carriers fled to Hawaii as our naval infantry and paratroopers stormed onto Taiwan. Why not use similar verbal tactics today?”

“You may be right,” Deng said. “The only flaw I can see in your reasoning is that the facts are too obvious to deny.”

“If anyone else spoke such words,” Jian said, “I would think they doubted the Chairman’s skills at these maneuvers. If anyone else suggested the Chairman couldn’t bewilder the American President with his web of words, I would say that person lacked faith in our Great Leader. But I know you, Deng Fong, so I would never suggest you lack faith.”

“Sir,” Deng said. “I am not disparaging your powers of persuasion.”

“I hope not,” the Chairman said with a frown.

Deng paused as awareness crept into his eyes. He glanced at Jian and then back at the Chairman.

Jian feared that Deng was finally beginning to understand an uncomfortable truth. While the Chairman’s will, acuity and ability to keep functioning over time had increased, Jian believed the old man was entering a delusional state of his own devising. Like many successful conquerors, the Chairman seemed to be choosing to believe that his will could overcome any obstacle. The old man’s ability to confuse foreigners about the reality of the situation had become legendary. Yet it did seem doubtful anyone could now confuse the Americans. That likely wouldn’t hinder the Chairman from trying, however. The list of successful conquerors following their star into the abyss was long. Jian thought of Wang Mang and his one-man dynasty, shaken by the Red Eyebrow Rebellion and finally slain by a common soldier. And he thought, too, of Hung Hsiu-ch’uan and his incredible Taiping Rebellion. At one time, he’d controlled half of China, before the world had collapsed on him.

“What is your plan, sir?” Deng asked.

“The same as before,” the Chairman said. “We will rip Alaska from the American grasp, using its oil to lever mass food shipments from them.”

“Sir,” Deng said, “may I interject a possible…uh…flaw with our thinking?”

“This is the Chairman’s plan,” Jian said, feigning disbelief. “Are you suggesting that the Chairman’s thinking is flawed?”

Deng smiled as he bowed his head in Jian’s direction. “The Chairman is wise and sees through anyone who attempts to twist another’s words. A minister’s bowing and scraping like a servant will not help that one as he fails in his assigned tasks. Charlatans, the Chairman easily spots them many kilometers distant.”

The Chairman glanced at Jian.

Jian forced a hearty tone into his words as he slowly clapped, “I applaud your speech. You are absolutely correct in the Chairman’s abilities. He also unmasks the preening arrogance of any who sits at his table like a foreign potentate. He can tell when one puffs himself up as another supposed ‘co-ruler’ of China.”

“Enough,” the Chairman said.

Jian and Deng, who had been studying each other, turned toward the Chairman.

“The President of the United States is on the line,” the Chairman said. “You, the members of the Ruling Committee of the Politburo, will listen to our conversation. I will call on each of you afterward to decipher his trickery. For now, however, you will remain silent.”

As Jian nodded and Deng raised an eyebrow, the Chairman’s wheelchair whirled with electric noise. He turned around, facing a moving curtain. It revealed a wall with a rolled out computer-scroll, with a camera above it, aimed at the Chairman. The scroll flickered into life. President Clark of the United States sat at his desk in the Oval Office, with a huge American flag as backdrop.

“Mr. Chairman,” President Clark said. “I welcome this opportunity for you and I to personally work out what potentially could prove disastrous for both our countries.”

“That warms my heart to hear you speak like this,” the Chairman said. “Such talks between men as you and I are particles of wisdom which the Cosmic All has seen fit to sprinkle upon us.”

President Clark blinked several times. He was a tall man, as most Presidents of the United States seemed to be. He had dark hair, graying on the sides, and was handsome in the rugged American way as portrayed in the movies.

“Sir,” said the President, “my country has faced several disasters lately. I’m sure you’ve heard of the American oilrig off the coast of California that mysteriously exploded. It washed wildlife-killing crude onto the State’s beaches. My experts tell me CHKR-57 explosives caused the rig’s destruction.”

“How truly unfortunate,” the Chairman said. “You have our country’s condolences.”

President Clark frowned. “CHKR-57 is the new Chinese high-explosive so recently discovered in your country’s laboratories.”

“I am aware of this.”

Clark glanced to his left, nodding slightly. Perhaps someone off-screen spoke to him. The President’s hands, which lay on his desk, held a pen. As he turned back to the screen, those hands tightened around the pen and the rugged face took on a pinched look.

Jian had read the psychological profile on Clark. The President was gifted at American politics, a barracuda against his political opponents. He also tended toward what the Americans called isolationism. He’d kept the American military from entering Mexico during its civil war. Many had called him cowardly for that. Others praised his foresight. His greatest achievement had been keeping civil war from erupting in his own country. The Aztlan Movement had been strong in America, and for several years, it looked as if many southwestern States would attempt secession to join a Greater Mexico. Through diplomacy, police force and Federal-level infiltration into the ranks of Aztlan rebels, Clark had kept the lid on long enough for the hotter-headed to cool down. The President disliked direct confrontation, believing as many leaders did that time solved most problems. New problems took the place of old ones, distracting the easily distracted populace.

“Mr. Chairman,” Clark now said, “I fear I must inform you that my divers found a White Tiger Commando in the oilrig’s debris.”

“This was never in the news,” the Chairman said.

“Nevertheless, the Commando was among the wreckage. The conclusion seems obvious.”

“I hope, Mr. President, you do not think I would ever order such an underhanded attack against your oil industry. China would never need stoop to such a thing.”

Clark looked visibly agitated, almost frightened.

For all his physical attributes, Jian thought, the President is a weak man.

“Mr. Chairman,” Clark said, “I assure you that I don’t think you would ever order such an attack. However, there may have been some in your administration with other ideas who worked behind your back.”

Jian held himself very still. Had Deng sent the Americans secret cables concerning Admiral Qingshan and him? If so, this was treachery at the highest levels. Clark stabbed at the truth. He couldn’t have done so on his own. The Chairman could now use this moment to defuse everything, if he became so inclined. There had to be a way to derail the conversation.

“Surely, Mr. President,” the Chairman said, “you understand that I hold the reins of power. My ministers would never dare work ‘behind my back.’ May I suggest to you what I think occurred?”

“By all means, Mr. Chairman.”

“The Taiwanese extremists are savages. Too many escaped into the wider world as our lost island returned to the fold of the mainland. These savages are clever little men, who scheme night and day to embroil our country in debilitating wars and entanglements. For decades, these plotters attempted to drag America into a face-to-face confrontation between our two mighty countries. Fortunately, we were both wise enough to avoid their schemes. Now, I fear, they have gone too far. With stolen White Tiger uniforms and equipment, these devils blew up your platform. Mr. President, I have no doubt you found such a corpse and clothed as you say. Like me, you are an honest man. I would never think to doubt your word.”

Clark’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip around the pen. “If it was simply a matter of one floating corpse, Mr. Chairman, I would drop my, ah, inquiry.”

Smiling from his wheelchair, the Chairman asked, “I do hope you are not making inquiries of me, Mr. President? I sit in a wheelchair, not a witness stand.”

“Perhaps I chose the wrong word.”

“You were a fearsome trail lawyer in your younger days. Old habits surely die hard. I can understand. But—”

“Please, Mr. Chairman, I misspoke a moment ago. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“No, no, Mr. President. There is no need to ask of this forgiveness. I simply asked for a clarification. You have given it to me. Thank you.”

Clark nodded, and he seemed relieved.

He is truly a simple, weak man, Jian thought. We should have invaded their country long ago.

“As I was saying or as I tried to say, Mr. Chairman. There is another incident that adds to my…my disquiet concerning the corpse found at the oilrig.”

“Oh?”

“Surely, you’ve watched it on the news. Two carriers in San Francisco Harbor were attacked today.”

“That is dreadful, Mr. President. I heard the supercarriers were not only attacked, but destroyed, obliterated.”

“Yes. Er, no,” said Clark. “They were hit. No one denies that. One was hit twice. Fortunately, American damage control teams prevented either from sinking. As surprising as it may seem, both carriers will soon return to the sea in active duty.”

The Chairman nodded slowly.

“He lies, sir,” Jian hissed. “Those carriers will never fight again.”

“Mr. Chairman,” Clark asked. “Did you say something?”

“I merely cleared my throat.” The Chairman nodded as if thinking. Then he smiled again.

Wise, Jian thought. The Americans are a nation of smiling fools. They will believe anyone who can smile well. He watched on a side computer-scroll the Chairman’s image as portrayed to the American.

“This is wonderful news about your carriers,” the Chairman was saying. “I congratulate your Navy personnel on fast work. Few would believe that any carrier could survive such devastating hits.”

“Our Navy damage control teams are the best in the world,” said Clark, “as I’m sure you know.”

“The American Navy is respected throughout the world, yes.”

“It is still more than capable of protecting its shores from any invasion.” Clark smiled in a seemingly false manner. “Our Navy can still hunt down those who harm the nation, in order to inflict punishing damage in retaliation.”

“That is excellent news, excellent,” the Chairman said. “Still, in hunting down these extremist dogs, I would think swift, hunter-killer CIA teams would serve you better than any carriers.”

“For hunting extremists, I suppose that’s true. Unfortunately, sir, I fear I must inform you that Chinese corpses were found in the trawler from which the San Francisco missile attack took place. Please let me finish, sir.”

The Chairman had been about to speak.

“Dragon Claw missiles were used against our carriers,” Clark said. “As you know, these are Chinese missiles.”

“I told you the Taiwanese extremists were ruthless,” the Chairman said. “Ever since they escaped our clutches, they have nefariously been selling small-arms weapons to drug lords and various separatists in order to acquire the funds for truly powerful weapons.”

“Dragon Claws are the latest and most deadly missiles in the Chinese arsenal,” Clark said. “I don’t see how any extremist could acquire them.”

The Chairman frowned. “Mr. President…are you suggesting that someone other than Taiwanese terrorists attacked your carriers?”

President Clark set down the pen and peered intently out of the screen. “Not only were Chinese weapons used to destroy—to hit our carriers—but you are at this time carrying out a giant naval exercise in the North Pacific, well west of the Kamchatka Peninsula. These naval maneuvers are taking place much too near Alaskan waters. Mr. Chairman, your naval exercise troubles many of my highest military people.”

“This exercise was planned months in advance.”

“Mr. Chairman, I would like to speak frankly with you if I may.”

“Please do.”

“First, let me say that is an honor to speak with a man such as you. You have brought together all the ‘lost’ provinces of China’s previous heydays. You have forged your country into a powerhouse. If one includes the satellite states of Central and East Siberia, you have welded together the largest country on Earth. In this day and age, that is an amazing feat. I speak to you therefore with utmost respect.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I also respect you.”

“It pleases me to hear so. Sir, your giant naval exercise, combined with the boarding of T-66 multi-turreted Army tanks into several cargo ships, troubles my senior officers. Of course, I told them not to worry. They then told me that your—” Clark glanced at a paper. “Your ice-mobile formations in East Siberia, in Ambarchik Base, have received massive shipments of winterized aircraft and new air-mobile formations. My military men tell me these units are capable of crossing the polar ice.”

The Chairman nodded as he tugged at his lower lip. “I suspect this is faulty information you’re receiving.”

“You deny—you’re telling me this build-up at Ambarchik Base is not happening?” asked Clark.

“I will have to ask my Minister of the Army to find out the full details of what is going on,” the Chairman said. “If he is practicing a deceitful maneuver without my knowledge, he will face serious consequences. I assure you of this, Mr. President. It is far more likely that your satellites or human intelligence sources saw something quite inconsequential in nature.”

“Mr. Chairman,” said Clark, “if I could cut to the chase, I feel I must ask you this. What could possibly cause China to attack the United States?”

“I am unaware of anything,” said the Chairman, “other than protecting our national sovereignty.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I know that recently our talks in Sydney were stalled due to the unfortunate timing of the assault against our Californian oilrig. Perhaps we could reopen negotiations between our two countries concerning a trade of oil for grain.”

Jian quit breathing. The sniveling President could ruin everything.

“Mr. Chairman?” asked Clark.

He’s bargaining for time, thought Jian, time to beef up his defenses.

“Your words intrigue me,” the Chairman said. “The trade would benefit both our nations. I wonder…. In the interest of trade and to show your good faith, could you immediately ship grain from San Diego?”

“I would need a clarification on what you mean by ‘immediately’,” said Clark.

“Today,” the Chairman said, as he stared at the President.

Clark glanced left to somewhere off-screen. The American President obviously listened to an advisor. Soon, a visibly shaken Clark turned back to the Chairman. “Yes, to show that we mean business, two ships will leave immediately for Hong Kong.”

“This is excellent news, Mr. President. I suspect you’ve heard something about a few rice ‘incidents’ in China’s interior.”

“Indeed I have,” said Clark. “It’s why I’m agreeing to this…ah, request.”

“News of the trade agreement will help us.”

Clark nodded.

“I will speak to my ministers about the renewing of trade talks,” the Chairman said. “I hope to finish this conversation with you tomorrow.”

“It would be my honor, sir. Ah, before we leave—” Clark hesitated, and he nodded, to himself, it seemed. “I would like to ask you for one small favor.”

“If it is in my power,” the Chairman said, “I will gladly give such a man of honor as you a favor.”

Clark looked earnestly out of the computer-scroll. He’d picked up the pen again and clutched it fiercely. “I would like to ask that you call off your naval exercise, immediately bringing the warships back to their Chinese homeports.”

“I see,” the Chairman said. “Hmm. I’ve watched the news about the dastardly attack against your carriers. Fully one third of your naval power destroyed in an instant. That would set any nation on edge.”

“Our Navy is still very powerful,” Clark said. “And it was only a sixth of our carrier force that was, ah, incapacitated.”

“Are you including in your count the small helicopter carriers and your hovercraft tenders?”

Clark breathed deeply through his nose. “About your naval exercise….”

“Mr. President,” the Chairman said, staring straight into Clark’s eyes. “I’m afraid that as much as I’d like to give you the small favor you requested…I cannot simply order the exercise’s cessation. My naval ministers informed me earlier that it would complicate matters for our personnel to receive such an order now. We are in the final phases of a highly sensitive maneuver and dearly wish to make sure there are no unwarranted accidents.”

“But Mr. Chairman—”

“Please, ask your own military people and I’m sure they will tell you I’m right about this.”

Clark licked his lips as his eyes tightened. He looked like a harried man. “Sir, two of our carriers were destroyed today by Chinese nationals using Chinese weaponry. I need something to show my military chiefs, or they will recommend severe defense responses against your fleet.”

The Chairman became grave. “Mr. President, I am reluctant to speak these words to you. You are an honorable man of peace. This I know, and for this, I highly respect you. But I must—warn is too strong a word. It approaches the meaning of what I intend, however. Hmm, let me say it this way. I must ask that all American military vessels, planes and hardware stay well away from all Chinese naval ships for the duration of our exercise. During this time, many of our warships carry live weaponry. With all my heart, I wish to avoid any messy incidents that could pull you and me into unforgivable actions against each other.”

Clark had become pale. “You spoke of the need of grain to help abate your food riots—”

The Chairman laughed, interrupting Clark’s speech. “Riots present a false word-image of what really occurs.”

Clark seemed confused. “But on the internet I’ve seen Chinese people storming a police station. That seems like a highly-charged situation, if I may be so bold to say so.”

The Chairman shook his head. “That is what I tried to explain earlier. I am old, so perhaps I failed to impart the correct…hmm, idea. The staged internet riots are more Taiwanese extremist work. This time, instead of using weaponry, they use clever fabrication to make it seem as if there is disorder in China. But the situation is quite otherwise, I assure you.”

Clark closed his eyes as he massaged his forehead. When he opened his eyes, he said, “Since you have seen fit to warn me about approaching your warships too closely, I would like to return the favor and inform you of recent developments. I have sent three heavy tank battalions to Alaska and four light infantry battalions. I have also sent new squadrons of fighters, bombers and laser-defenders to the North Slope oilfields. What is more—” Clark grew pale as his eyes reddened. “Mr. Chairman, in the interests of my nation’s security, I must inform you that if any of your naval vessels head toward the American coast, particularly toward Alaska, we will regard that as a prelude to an impending amphibious attack.”

“These are hard words, Mr. President.”

“They give me no joy,” Clark said.

“I will—”

“I’m not finished,” Clark said. “I’m sorry to sound so abrupt, but I feel I must tell you that not all of our ICBMs are nuclear-tipped. My military chiefs tell me that some of our ballistic missiles are ship-killers. You might be interested to know that the use of Anti-Ship Ballistic Missiles, ASBMs, against naval vessels was first a Chinese tactical solution to an enemy fleet with too many carriers near its coast. It was a good idea, one we will use if we must.”

“I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Are you threatening me with war?”

“Don’t you understand? I’m trying to stop a war that in the end no one will win.”

The Chairman nodded slowly. “Mr. President, you seem highly agitated. It pains me to say this, but your state of mind troubles me.”

“War is a terrible thing, Mr. Chairman. Yet I will not shrink from my responsibilities as the nation’s Commander-in-Chief.”

“Hmm, I can see that you dearly love your country. And your resolve…it might help my military people to know it so they can understand what they are risking with the continued exercise. Therefore, in the interest of peace between our two nations, I will attempt to order a cessation of our naval exercise. I must ask, however, that you keep your military people from hair-trigger responses. Let us send watch-teams to each other’s installations and sea platforms. That might help dampen the danger.”

Clark blinked several times before a grin stretched across his face. “I can agree to that.”

“Let us talk tomorrow,” the Chairman said.

The smile on the President’s face grew. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I knew I could talk to you. You are a man of honor and foresight.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I return the compliment. Until tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow,” Clark said, sitting back in his chair.

The red light on the camera shut off, and the screen showing President Clark blanked out.

Jian was aghast. Deng must have sent the American President secret communications. The trade talks would resume and it seemed that the war was over before it had started. This was a disaster.

The wheelchair turned around so a haggard Chairman regarded them. “Time has run out,” he said. “These non-nuclear ASBMs, how dangerous are they?”

“Very,” said Admiral Qingshan. “It is the correct response on their part.”

“Do you have enough laser-defense planes to stop them?” asked the Chairman.

“It all depends on how many they launch,” the admiral said. “But we will use more than just the laser-planes. Our destroyers and cruisers are armed with anti-missile systems. Still, it could be a risky—”

“Is there nothing we can do?” the Chairman asked.

“Yes,” said Qingshan. “We can take out their targeting satellites. That will make it much more difficult for the ASBMs to pinpoint our ships during the terminal phase of their flight.”

“I hereby order this satellite destruction,” the Chairman said. “Now what is all this about them moving divisions of troops to Alaska?”

“It is pure fantasy, sir,” Jian said. “The U.S. Army hasn’t moved yet. They’re just beginning to mobilize. But they haven’t moved a single troop unit. It will be at least two or three weeks before the American Army can get there, probably longer. So it is not an issue.”

“Sir,” said a frowning Deng. “I thought you just agreed to trade grain for oil. You told President Clark—”

The Chairman was shaking his head as it rested against the wheelchair’s back. “It is much too late for peace. Our interior people want food now. They are storming police stations and setting them alight. No. We must take their minds off their hunger. If nothing else, a good shooting war will glue them to their TVs and computers. Then, once we take Alaska and once the Americans realize their helplessness against us—” The Chairman smiled tiredly. “Knowledge of a supine America and the coming food tribute will keep the people quiet long enough until our stores brim with American bread and potatoes.”

“What about the American ASBMs?” Deng asked.

The Chairman regarded the Army Minister.

The old marshal sat forward, his sculptured face showing ‘eager readiness.’

“You will take out every American recon satellite that can scan into the Pacific Ocean,” the Chairman said. “Then we must use refueling tankers to keep our laser-armed planes near the invasion fleet. If any of the enemy ASBMs launch, we must have the swift capacity to destroy them.”

“What about tomorrow, sir?” Deng asked. “What will you tell President Clark then?”

From his wheelchair and as he exposed his yellowed teeth, the Chairman said, “That, Energy Minister, will be my surprise. I believe my surprise might end the war before it begins, with Alaska as the newest province of our growing empire.”

-9-

Contact

MUKDEN, P.R.C.

Captain Han of the Chinese Space Service settled a virtual reality (VR) helmet over his head. He was in a pit and sat on a padded chair. He wore a flight suit, with attached lines snaking to routers and infrared sensors in the tubular-shaped wall around him. After fitting on the VR helmet, he thrust his hands into twitch gloves.

This was the latest in remote-control technology. Above and around him sat techs with monitors, watching his heart rate and other biological functions as others watched his weapons system. They were underground in a nuclear-blast protected heavy bunker.

Today, Captain Han would control one of three of China’s latest space-superiority missiles. His pit and assorted personnel were in one of the hexes of the Nexus Command Center.

“Are you ready, Captain?”

Han rechecked his systems. Everything worked. He nodded and managed to say, “Yes.”

“Pit Number Three, ready,” an unseen officer said.

Time ticked by. Finally, Han’s VR helmet hummed with life. Images appeared before him, clouds high in the sky. He used his twitch gloves and shifted the missile’s cameras. Trucks raced away from a launch pad.

“His heart rate is increasing,” a tech said.

“Relax, Captain. You’ll do fine.”

“Should we shut down his systems during liftoff?” a different tech asked.

“Negative. We need to test them.”

“Test on a day like this?”

“When else do you suggest? We’ve never actually used these systems before in battle.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“Shhh. Do you want the Air Commodore to hear you?”

There was silence after that as the techs worked. Han waited in the pit as his stomach began to tighten. Through his helmet, he watched a bird fly across the sky.

“Get ready, Captain,” a tech said. “Liftoff is T-minus thirty.”

“I’m ready,” said Han, his mouth dry. He knew what he was supposed to do. He’d been thinking about it during the preparation. This was the greatest space attack in history, and he was afraid it might trigger World War Three.

I don’t want a nuclear holocaust. The Americans are sure to have located Nexus Command. If China and America exchanged nuclear weapons, this place would cease to exist, of that he had no doubt. Han knew the government had poured time, tech and money into building an impenetrable bunker, but he was sure it couldn’t survive a direct nuclear hit.

“Relax, Captain, you’ll do fine,” a tech said again.

Han had total faith in his abilities. He was the best in China at remote controlling. It was the results after the space attack that he wasn’t so sure about. By the tech’s nervous voice and constant reassurances, Han realized the tech also knew this could be the end of the world for them in this underground facility.

“All right,” another tech said. “This is it. Ten…nine…eight…”

***

Boost phase had lasted five minutes, sending Han’s King of Heaven missile into Low Earth Orbit.

“All systems are on,” a tech said. “It’s your show, Captain.”

Han’s mouth had dried out even more, making it impossible to speak. With his integrated VR system, he could have sworn he’d felt the vibration of the climbing King of Heaven, the roar of the three-stage rocket. Virtual reality imaging—it had become almost too good.

“Captain Han?” a tech said.

Han tried to swallow so he get could enough moisture in his mouth to speak.

“His heart rate is increasing.”

“Inject him!”

“No,” Han said. He didn’t want any drugs. He didn’t want to mar his thinking. His mind was his greatest asset, and the thought of fiddling with it through drugs frightened him.

“Hurry, Doctor, his heart rate has jumped again. You must inject him.”

Down in the pit, Han shook his head. “No injections, please,” he managed to whisper.

“Did you say something, Captain?”

“Please, no—”

There was a stab of pain in his shoulder. Han blinked rapidly. They had injected him. They had just done it.

“Captain, you must concentrate. The first target is coming into range. Captain! Can you hear me?”

Han blinked rapidly. They had injected him. They were modifying his behavior through drugs. How dare they do that to him. He was the best remote controller in China. Didn’t they understand what that meant?

“What’s wrong with him?” a tech asked.

“Captain Han!”

“I see it,” Han whispered. There was a cooling sensation in his mind. He was calmer. “Energizing now,” he said, twitching his gloves.

The massive King of Heaven missile had a nuclear power-plant embedded in it. It was to provide the energy for the missile’s long-range pulse-laser. The laser would need the strength and range in order to destroy the American GPS satellites high in geosynchronous orbit. The King of Heaven would need the nuclear power to destroy other American satellites afterward.

“Engaging laser,” said Han, who began to target the first GPS satellite.

VANDENBERG BASE, CALIFORNIA

Klaxons wailed as the base’s silos began opening like flowers. Moments later, the first ASBM missiles began to emerge for liftoff. They were the TX Mod-3. The ‘T’ stood for Triton, the ‘X’ was for Experimental. Mod-3 meant this was the third major modification of the Triton missile type.

The base’s commander watched from his bunker. He knew the President was dubious about this. The GPS satellites and other recon satellites were gone, swept away by the Chinese sneak attack. The Joint Chiefs had probably told the President the ASBMs wouldn’t be any good without real-time information.

At least our ABM lasers killed those Chinese laser-firing missiles, but not before they destroyed our most critical space assets.

The base commander grinned tightly. The Chinese hadn’t counted on the Mod-3 Triton. The Mod-3 was linked to over-the-horizon radar stations, and even now, the Navy was launching UAVs. The missiles would use data gained from those high-flying drones.

The thirty-three thousand pound missiles were ready. Each was thirty-five feet long. The engine was solid fueled. Its operational range was nineteen hundred miles, approximately three thousand kilometers. It was more than enough to hit the Chinese Fleet threatening to enter the Gulf of Alaska.

“Sir?” asked a major.

“Launch them,” whispered the base commander. “It’s payback time.”

Thirty seconds later, the ground shook as the first Triton ASBM roared into life, causing a great billowing cloud to engulf its launch pad.

The Tritons roared for the heavens. The initial boost phase lasted three point one-five minutes. The heavy rockets put the missiles into sub-orbital space flight. None of the missiles were intended to complete an orbital revolution around the Earth. Each missile’s flight path used a trajectory that went up and down in a relatively simple curve, well before it had a chance to orbit around the Earth like a recon satellite.

These were ship-killing missiles, essentially, they were ICBMs without nuclear warheads. The Tritons would use a conventional warhead and kinetic energy to destroy its targets. At the time of impact, each missile would be traveling at Mach 10.

The individual Tritons received telemetry information and made course corrections. They were beginning the mid-course phase of their flight. Triton missiles were MIRVed. They each carried multiple warheads with individual targeting abilities. Each Triton also used MaRVs, maneuverable reentry vehicles. Before those final maneuvers took place, the ASBMs would launch metallic-coated balloons. The balloons would carry the same thermal readings as the warheads and would hopefully fool Chinese targeting. Each Triton would also launch a full-scale warhead decoy to frustrate even further Chinese radar.

PRCN SUNG

The pride of the Chinese Navy was the supercarrier Sung. It was a massive ship, displacing one hundred and eight thousand tons. Its air wing of ninety modern fighters, bombers, tankers and electronic warfare planes gave it great offensive power. There were seven other supercarriers in the invasion fleet. Each had its escort of cruisers, destroyers, supply-ships, submarines, helicopter-tenders and other vessels.

The fleet was spread out across this tiny portion of the Pacific Ocean as it neared the tip of the Aleutian Islands. It was a grand armada of a type not seen since World War Two. Fighters flew Combat Air Patrol, CAP. Farther behind and much higher in the atmosphere, giant Type Nine COIL planes flew CAP. Those lumbering monsters had one task, shooting down incoming enemy ballistic missiles. They protected the Navy fighting ships and the vast number of cargo vessels carrying nine brigades of Chinese naval infantry, a regiment of Army T-66 tri-turreted tanks and fuel, food and munitions for the coming fight.

Admiral Niu Ling commanded the armada from the Sung. The giant supercarrier moved like a serene beast through the gray waters. Admiral Ling was old, but looked older. He was missing his left arm, while the left side of his face never moved. He’d been in an aircraft accident fifteen years ago as a two-seater had landed badly on a flight deck. Fortunately, his one good eye shone darkly. Ling was a gruff old man, wearing his injuries like armor. How could anyone hurt him more than he’d already hurt himself?

“Admiral,” an officer said. “The Americans have launched their ASBMs at the fleet.”

The old man grunted.

“If you’ll come over here, sir,” the officer said, escorting the admiral to a com-board.

Admiral Ling studied the board before he snapped off an order, “Alert the cruiser and destroyer captains. Then engage the joint Ballistic Missile Defense System. Let us see who is superior, the fallen Americans or us.”

The fleet’s cruisers and destroyers rushed into defensive mode as horns wailed on the many ships. The computer systems were integrated, run from the mighty AI Kingmaker in the Sung. The fleet had practiced seven dry runs throughout the many days of the supposed naval exercise for just this eventuality.

The sky was overcast as the first defensive MIR-616 Standard Missile 4 blasted off from the Chinese cruiser Eastern Thunder.

The SM-4 was six point five-five meters long. It had a wingspan of one point seven-five meters and an operational range of five hundred kilometers. Its flight ceiling was one hundred and sixty kilometers, approximately one hundred miles.

The AI Kingmaker on the Sung used Chinese GPS satellites and INS semi-active radar to track the approaching missiles. It used that information to integrate its anti-missile defense.

On other cruisers and destroyers, SM-4 missiles began their first stage liftoff. Each used a solid-fuel Aerojet booster.

From the bridge of his supercarrier, Admiral Ling watched in admiration as a great flock of anti-missiles sped into the gray sky.

The Chinese Fleet now took emergency maneuvers as the warships made erratic course changes every fifteen seconds. At the same time, the SM-4s roared out of human eyesight. The AI Kingmaker kept track of them, however, as it kept feeding them information.

As the first stage rocket fell away, the second stage dual thrust rocket motor took over. More GPS data poured into the missiles as they rapidly climbed out of the atmosphere and into space. The third stage MK 136 solid-fueled rocket motor used pulse power until the last thirty seconds of interception.

It was an information and electronic war now as the SM-4s sought to destroy the carrier-killing Tritons.

Computers decisions were made in nanoseconds. On a SM-4, the third stage separated. The Lightweight Exo-Atmospheric Projectile sent the kinetic warhead at its chosen target. Chinese sensors on the kinetic warhead attempted to identify the most lethal part of the target and steered for it.

The seconds ticked by, and the kinetic warhead impacted against one of the Triton’s warheads. The SM-4 hit and provided one hundred and thirty megajoules of kinetic energy to the American object, destroying the first warhead of the battle.

MUKDEN, P.R.C.

Finished with his duties some time ago, a dazed Captain Han stood to the side. He watched operations in the large Nexus Central Command Underground Station. Green-jacketed operators at various stations used touch screens. Standing behind them, Space Service officers cursed or stared fixedly at the TVs. Others spoke into receivers.

“There, sir,” an operator said, “If you’ll look up on the big screen.”

Han turned his attention to the Nexus’s big screen, tracking the flock of ASBMs approaching the invasion fleet. Red blips had ASBM numerals under them. One winked out, a kill by a SM-4.

No one cheered yet. It was much too early for that.

The fleet was a cluster of blue-colored blips that cruised just south of the Aleutian Islands off the Alaskan Peninsula.

“Make certain the pilots are alerted,” the Air Commodore said.

Han noticed yellow blips. The majority of them circled the blue blips. They were Type Nine laser-planes on combat air patrol around the fleet. A few yellow blips moved away from the Kamchatka Peninsula of Siberia and toward the fleet. They would likely be far too late for the battle. The planes used short-ranged lasers, at least short as compared to the strategic ABM lasers.

“Where are the space-mirrors?” Han asked. “Why don’t we use them?”

A tech watching beside him whispered, “What was that, Captain?”

“Why aren’t we using our space-mirrors, bouncing our ABM lasers off them to destroy these ASBMs?”

“The Americans had the foresight to attack and de-calibrate the mirrors,” the tech replied.

Han nodded sagely. The Americans had fallen behind in the technological race. But they were still cagey.

More ASBM blips began to wink out on the big screen. That still left far too many. They would surely destroy the supercarriers, the heart of the fleet’s offensive power. That would end the invasion before it began. How would the Chairman and the Ruling Committee react to that?

“Why aren’t our Type Nine planes firing yet?” the Air Commodore asked.

“Range, sir,” one of the nearest operators said. “In another thirty seconds—”

“That’s cutting it too fine,” the Air Commodore said, as he stepped closer to the big screen. The Air Commodore arched his head to look up as he clenched his fists.

“Sir!” an operator said. “The Tritons are entering the atmosphere. The terminal phase has begun and the enemy warheads are maneuvering.”

Han didn’t know how anyone could make sense of the big screen. It was a blizzard of lines and colored blips. He noticed that lines stabbed from the yellow blips. The lines connected to the fast-moving red blips. There was less than two minutes to impact.

PACIFIC OCEAN

The Triton warheads with their semi-maneuverable vehicles and advanced guidance systems zeroed in on the supercarriers or anything that looked or gave the electronic signature of a giant ocean-going vessel.

High in the atmosphere, however, were the Type Nine COIL anti-ballistic planes flying combat air patrol. Each plane had a medium-ranged-powered laser, much weaker than China’s strategic ABM lasers. The plane’s lasers were chemical-powered as compared to the heavier pulse-lasers ringing China.

Each Type Nine was as large as a Chinese cargo airbus used to transport a main battle-tank to distant theaters of war. Each Type Nine used a COIL weapon: a chemical oxygen iodine laser. The beam was infrared and therefore invisible to the naked eye. A mixture of gaseous chlorine, molecular iodine with hydrogen peroxide and potassium hydroxide fed the laser. A halogen scrubber cleaned traces of chlorine and iodine from the laser exhaust gases. The focusable beam was transferred by an optical fiber, and it speared through the atmosphere at the Triton warheads.

The COIL planes represented China’s entire fleet, kept aloft by tankers. The scale of the operations was immense and impressive.

The Type Nine COIL planes continued to stab their lasers at the last warheads. The SM-4 missiles and the COIL beams had destroyed ninety-three percent of the attack. Now, the few American warheads to survive the journey began to strike with fantastic results.

PRCN SUNG

Admiral Ling gazed out of the ballistic glass on the supercarrier’s bridge. Something flashed down from the heavens. There was a brighter flash on the horizon. Ling stood frozen for a moment. Then he turned to a computer screen.

There was a sweaty, frightened odor on the bridge as the crew waited for life or death.

“No,” Ling groaned.

“They destroyed a carrier,” an operator whispered.

“Look, sir,” an excited operator told Ling. “The next one hit a camouflaged destroyer.”

The Sung’s XO laughed, nodding happily.

Admiral Ling didn’t laugh. He was glad the next warhead had missed another carrier. Yes, the last hit was good for China and the invasion fleet, but not good for the sailors on the destroyer. They had pulsed signals, trying to electronically mimic a carrier. The crew had paid the ultimate price for their success.

A terrific explosion occurred nearby.

Stricken, Admiral Ling looked up. “Was that another carrier?”

“…no, sir,” an operator said. “I think the warhead hit a fuel tender.”

Admiral Ling nodded sickly, waiting for it to be over. How many more ships would the Americans hit?

There was yet another explosion, another massive spot on the horizon. Everyone on the bridge waited. Ling was finding it hard to breath.

“Another fuel tender, sir,” an officer said.

Ling nodded.

Then a horn blared. It was the AI Kingmaker’s way of saying that the ASBM attack was over.

“We did it,” the XO told Admiral Ling. The man grinned. “Soon it will be our turn to attack the Americans.”

Admiral Ling became thoughtful. They had survived with most of the fleet intact. Rubbing his stump of a left shoulder, Admiral Ling sighed. His fleet was headed toward the tip of the Aleutian Islands. The invasion of Alaska was about to begin.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

‘Professor’ Stan Higgins checked his watch. He had ten minutes to talk to his dad. Then he had to hightail it to the National Guard Depot. The news yesterday about the Chinese Fleet had frightened everyone at school.

We attacked the fleet with ASBMs and failed to take it out. They’ve already taken out two of our supercarriers in San Francisco. It looks like the Chinese are winning.

Stan sat in a cubicle with ballistic glass and a phone before him. The door in the other room opened. His dad Mack Higgins wore orange prison garb and was flanked by a guard. Mack looked around in confusion.

It hurt to see his dad like this. His father stooped more and his leathery skin sagged on his face. The worst was his cloudy eyes and that his wrists were handcuffed. What was the reason for that?

Stan banged on the glass to get his dad’s attention.

Instead of gaining that, a guard in the visitor’s room told him, “Hey, don’t hit the glass. If you do it again your time is over.”

Stan hunched his shoulders. He waved to his dad. The guard with Mack grabbed his dad’s arm. Big Mack Higgins flinched. More than anything else, that put a pit of pain in Stan’s gut. What had the guards done to his dad to make that happen? His father was a brave man, not easily frightened.

Has Officer Jackson been in to hit him again?

One of these days, Stan would like to face off with Jackson, both of them with nightsticks. Jackson was bigger and might have more training with the sticks, but Stan would jump at the chance to have a fair fight without the law involved. Then they would see what happened.

His dad sat down on the stool in the other cubicle. Stan picked up his phone and smiled. The cloudiness was still in his dad’s eyes.

They’ve drugged him. The creeps have drugged my dad. Stan tapped on the glass.

“I thought I told you—” the guard in the visitor room said.

“Sorry,” Stan said. “I won’t do it again.”

“If you do,” the guard said, “you ain’t coming back. Got it?”

Stan’s eyes narrowed. It made his dad give him a questioning look. Shaking his phone, trying to forget about the guard, Stan mouthed, ‘Pick up your phone.’

It must have worked, because Mack did.

“Hello, Dad,” Stan said.

“Son?”

“Are you all right?”

Mack scowled. “They’re poisoning me with drugs that are ruining my thinking. The aliens suspect me and must be trying to erase my memory.”

“Has anyone hit you?” Stan asked.

Mack touched his side. “Only a few times,” he said. A slow grin worked onto his face. “But I fought back.”

Stan wanted to groan.

Mack put a hand on the glass. Two of the fingernails were cracked and black underneath. “Is it true the aliens are about to invade us?”

“Do you mean the Chinese?”

“Not them, but the aliens, the ones pulling the Chinese strings.”

“The Chinese blew up two of our carriers in San Francisco,” Stan said. “Have you heard about that?”

Mack nodded. “They’re a clever and treacherous people. We must nuke them as MacArthur said. Son, if they’re coming for Alaska, they’ll hit Anchorage sooner or later.”

Stan nodded. His wife and kids had tried to get out at the airport, but couldn’t. All the boats were full. All the cruise ships had long since left, and they were closing the highways.

“The Chinese will send paratroopers to grab the airport,” Mack said.

“That seems like a logical move,” Stan said. He’d taken out a map yesterday, figuring out what he’d do if he were the enemy. “If the Chinese control metropolitan Anchorage, they’ve conquered half the population, grabbed the most important ports and the critical airport. It seems like it would be easy from there to rush to the main passes. Then they could bottle up the rest of Alaska and set up defensive positions into Canada, making it nearly impossible for reinforcements arriving from British Columbia or the Yukon.”

“Let me out of here to help you,” Mack said. “I can lead a counter-terrorist squad. We’ll sweep the Federal government buildings of alien sympathizers.”

Stan winced. If they’re recording this, my dad is toast. They might send recordings like these to Homeland Security. They’d be sure to kick me out of the National Guard then.

“Dad, listen to me. I want you…to fool the aliens.”

“What do you know?”

“I think they’re monitoring the phones,” Stan said. “You need to confuse the sympathizers by acting as peaceful as possible.”

Mack squeezed his phone as he stared at Stan. “No! They know who I am. They’re trying to break my will by having psychologists convince me I’m crazy.” Mack laughed. “Besides us two—the aliens have bamboozled nearly everyone else.”

That’s the definition of insane: when you believe you’re the only one who’s sane.

“I know what you mean,” Stan said. “But listen, try to pretend. Go along with them for a little while until I can spring you.”

Mack shoulders straightened. “Are you talking about a jailbreak?”

Stan put a finger in front of his mouth. Then he pointed at the guard. His father nodded in a knowing way.

“I understand,” Mack said.

“Good. Dad, they’ve activated the National Guard. I…I might not be able to visit you tomorrow or for the next few days.”

A look of bewilderment came over Mack Higgins. He swallowed so his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I understand,” he whispered.

He’s scared. They have him good and scared.

“I’ll come by as soon as I can,” Stan said quickly.

Mack looked away as he lowered the receiver. His grip tightened. When he looked back, his eyes were moist. Lifting the receiver, he said, “You’re driving a tank, right?”

“One of the heavies,” said Stan.

“The Chinese are going to be coming for you,” Mack said. “Your Abrams tanks are old, but they’re the heaviest tanks we have in Alaska.”

More like the only tanks we have in Alaska. It wasn’t completely true, but it was close enough to make it frightening. Yeah, Stan knew his company would be a primary military target.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Mack said. “Conserve our armor. Make the Chinese play out against our infantry. Try to plug them up in the streets.”

“We’re not going to let the Chinese into Anchorage,” Stan said. “I can guarantee you that.”

Garcia had told him they were already mining Cook Inlet and Prince William Sound. The National Guard and U.S. Army were also rushing artillery and mortar-teams to Anchorage. The idea was to make the Chinese attack through the Kenai Peninsula if they wanted to reach Anchorage. That was infantry country, especially with the mountains in the Kenai Fjords National Park and the Exit Glacier west of Seward.

Mack was shaking his head. “That’s foolish talk. You need to use Anchorage as a trap. Hold back your Abrams. Have the people throw Molotov cocktails on the engine hoods and use rocket launchers against their armor. Your Abrams are an ace. Only use them to win the game, the Battle for Anchorage. Do you understand me?”

Stan looked at his dad. The old man remembered small-arms tactics but could no longer see the operational picture. Stan nodded. “I do, Colonel Higgins. You’re saying this is going to be a slugfest.”

“The Chinese don’t mind taking losses. America learned that in Korea.”

“The Korean War ended almost eighty years ago,” said Stan.

“National habits don’t change much,” said Mack. “As a history teacher you should know that.”

“Sure, I know it.”

“They’re going to try to grab Alaska fast, doing it the hard way, straightforward with a lightning strike of armor, paratroopers and sleeper units.”

Alaska was twice the size of Texas, with vast mountain ranges, virgin forests and ice. It had more coastline than the rest of the continental United States combined. Stan couldn’t see how the Chinese could conquer the State quickly. They’d need to hit other places simultaneously do to that.

Stan was curious. “How do you know all this, sir?”

“It’s military common sense. They’ll want to grab our State before the President can send the heavy stuff up through British Columbia. Once they own Alaska, the Chinese will hold the people hostage for our country’s good behavior. So you have to drive the Chinese out of Anchorage, once you’ve suckered them into a Stalingrad here.”

“The Chinese haven’t even made it here, Dad. Our submarines and fighters will probably stop them before they can try a D-Day operation against the city.”

“Don’t fool yourself. The Chinese will be here. They have to if they’re going to conquer Alaska. Remember, they’ll hit hard and fast. Absorb the first blow by covering up. See what they have, but stay well away from the big guns on their battleships.”

“Do the Chinese even have battleships?” Stan asked. Those were vintage World War Two weapons.

Mack shook his head. “I don’t know about the battleships. The aliens might have built them some. What I’m saying, son, is that this is going to be a Hell of a fight. Save your tanks for the end, or we’ll lose. Do I make myself clear?”

Stan suddenly had a sick feeling that this would be the last time he’d see his dad. He tried to shake the feeling, but it wouldn’t go away. Why did the Chinese have to invade Alaska? It was crazy.

“I…I respect you, sir,” Stan said.

“You’re a good son,” Mack said. “I love you. I always have.”

Stan nodded stiffly. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Remember what I said, boy.”

“Bye, Dad.”

“You make me proud, Stan Higgins. You beat the tar out of these Chinese bastards, promise me.”

“I promise, sir.”

“I’m going to hold you to that. Now go on, get out of here,” Mack said, standing tall, the cloudiness fading from his eyes. Then his shoulders slumped and some of the cloudiness returned.

Stan watched as his dad wandered to the waiting guard. The Chinese were coming and his dad had just given him sound advice. The National Guard needed to save the few tanks America had in Alaska. Before this was through, Stan vowed as he gritted his teeth, he was going to get his dad out of here. Mack Higgins deserved better than spending his last days in jail.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna and Colin Green rode an elevator down to White House Bunker Number Five. The National Security Advisor was telling her the history of the heavily armored bunker. It had its own generator, communications system and security grid. It was meant to function even if the capitol received a direct hit from a nuclear weapon.

The elevator stopped, the door opened and they entered a short corridor. Marine guards lined the way. A Marine major nodded at Green and visibly inspected Anna. He glanced at his computer-scroll and then looked at her with recognition.

“The President will join you in a minute,” the major said as he opened the door for them.

Anna followed Green into a large chamber with a big circular table. She was surprised at the number of people gathered and that she recognized all of them from the news. Above the center of the table was a triangular-screened computer-scroll. As Anna sat, she spied two jets on the screen facing her. Something small detached from their underbellies. A moment later on the computer-scroll, violent explosions erupted across the snow-covered land.

The door opened again, and the Marine major stepped in, saying, “The President of the United States.”

President Clark strode in, followed by the Secretary of State in a rumbled suit. The two men took their seats and the meeting began.

General Michael Alan, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, began to outline the military situation. As he did, one of his aides changed the video images on the computer-scrolls above the conference table.

“Reconnaissance is spotty, Mr. President. The Chinese have destroyed our spy satellites and they continue to knock down high-level UAV cams. We believe the ASBM attack destroyed one of their carriers and several ancillary vessels, but we failed to halt the invasion.”

“They’ve landed?” asked the President.

“Not yet, sir,” General Alan said, “at least not in any numbers. Let me explain. The Chinese first struck military instillations in the Aleutian Islands. Afterward, they landed recon teams, but we don’t believe they landed any fighting infantry formations.”

“How do you know this if the satellites are down?” the President asked.

“We still have assets, sir.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” the Secretary of State said.

General Alan adjusted his glasses. He was a thin man and seldom smiled. “There were survivors in the Aleutians who radioed what they knew before White Tiger Commandos hunted them down. The Navy continues to launch UAV cams and we have weather balloons—”

“We’re using weather balloons to gather intelligence?” the Secretary of State asked in disbelief.

“They’re proving invaluable,” General Alan said. “They’re high-level and have a negligible sensor signature. That means the Chinese are having a difficult time smoking them out. Unfortunately, the balloons are at the mercy of the winds.”

“We can hammer out the details later,” the President said. “Right now I want to know the worst.”

“Yes, sir,” said General Alan, who glanced at an aide before continuing his speech. “The Chinese have caught us by surprise and now they’re maximizing their advantage. They’re keeping the carriers bunched tight and swarming our defenses with mass fighter, bomber attacks. If you’ll notice, the majority of their base attacks are with fuel-burst bombs.”

Anna looked up at a computer-scroll. Jets streaked across the scene, dropping bombs. Seconds later, the entire scroll turned orange with explosions.

“Their military intelligence is excellent,” General Alan said. “They’ve attacked almost every installation outside the umbrella of our strategic ABM laser stations. Naturally, the Chinese aircraft come in low, which lessens the line-of-sight of our pulse-lasers. Most of those strategic lasers are inland and they were built to destroy stratospheric ICBMs. That means a crafty use of enemy air assets can negate much of an ABM laser’s use.”

“Wait a minute,” said Clark. “Are you saying…that even with seven supercarriers the Chinese won’t be able to gain complete air superiority over Alaska?”

“Not as long as we keep the pulse-lasers intact, mass our tactical laser batteries with our SAMs and rush fighters to Alaska,” General Alan said. “The problem, however, is that our air-transportation system is already straining at the breaking point. That’s made worse by the presence of the seven carriers. Because of them, we have to fly through the Yukon. There are terrible snowstorms raging, and our air-transport fleet is badly outdated.”

“Use commercial flights for some of the Army’s needs,” the Secretary of Defense said.

“That will cost us money we don’t have,” the Treasury Secretary said.

“We’d better find a way to pay it,” the Secretary of State said.

“You spoke about aging transports,” the President said. “No. That’s not quite right. You said the transport system is nearly broken.”

“Yes, sir,” General Alan said. “Maybe if I outlined the problem in detail.”

President Clark nodded.

Putting his slender hands flat on the table, General Alan said, “We’re all familiar with the ongoing military shrinkage. Year after year, we’ve demobilized Army, Navy or Air Force formations. Often, we left equipment at old bases. We put machines into storage or parked a thousand vehicles in an abandoned lot. Much of that equipment simply rusted away and turned into junk. Sometimes, however, we donated the old equipment to various National Guard formations. The Alaskan National Guard possesses some M2 Bradleys but almost no heavy armor.”

“We know all this,” the Secretary of State said.

General Alan blinked at the larger man. “Let me put it like this then. The Alaskan National Guard has outdated equipment. The Army possesses two skeletal brigades there. Without the Alaskan Militiamen to bolster our numbers, the Chinese would swamp us. We need everything up there at once. We need more Wyvern surface-to-air missiles, more armor, more fighters, more laser batteries, more warm bodies—”

“We understand this is an emergency,” the President said. “You’ve made your point. We lack many things, but hopefully we have enough in place to stall them.”

General Alan frowned. “That depends, sir.”

“On what?”

“Their goal.”

“The Chairman has already told us what he plans to do,” the President said.

Anna perked up. This was news to her.

“When did he tell you this, sir?” General Alan asked.

President Clark sat back as his eyes narrowed. “I spoke to the Chairman after our ASBM assault. I warned him against invading American soil. He said the Chinese invaded in order to right past wrongs. He pointed out the Northeastern Area as a case in point.”

“I’m not familiar with that, sir,” General Alan said.

Clark hesitated. Anna wondered if the President failed to realize what the Chairman had meant by that.

“The Northeastern Area was former Russian land, particularly around Vladivostok,” Anna said. “Several dynasties ago, the territory belonged to China. The Russians took it….” She faltered as everyone in the chamber stared at her, many with incomprehension.

“This is Anna Chen, our China expert,” the President said. “She tried to warn us of the impending attack.”

Green looked up in alarm.

The President chuckled, although there wasn’t any humor in his voice. “Did you think to keep that hidden from me, Colin?”

“Uh, no sir,” Green said.

The President folded his hands on the table. “The Chairman claimed the U.S. stole Alaska from the Siberians. I told him the Russians had discovered Alaska and we bought it from them. That’s when he launched into a historical lesson. He said the Yakuts—the Siberian natives—discovered Alaska when they crossed the Bering Strait during former ice ages. The Chairman told me he was weary of the Anglos having stolen native lands all over the world. The day has come where China will liberate Alaska from the imperialistic Europeans and return it to its native peoples. He promised to protect Alaska, giving the Eskimos—the Inuit natives—Chinese guarantees of native sovereignty.”

“That sounds just like Aztlan propaganda,” the Secretary of State said.

“Bah!” Green said with heat. “There isn’t any land anywhere in the world worth taking that someone hasn’t taken from someone else. It’s a fact of nature that the strong take from the weak. The Native American tribes did it to each other before any Europeans came. Foxes and wolves steal each other’s territory from each other.”

“I’m not sure I like your implication,” the Secretary of State said. “We didn’t steal land from anyone. Alaska is sovereign U.S. Territory.”

“One thing the Chairman made clear,” said Clark, forestalling Green’s rebuttal. “The Chinese intend to capture the entire State. But I’m curious. Ms. Chen. Why did the Chairman say those things to me?”

“I believe his words were primarily for internal Chinese consumption,” Anna said. “The Chairman said those things so he doesn’t appear as the aggressor.”

“Will anyone believe such nonsense?” the President asked.

“There is an old saying: any port will do in a storm,” Anna said. “What the Chairman told you is an excuse, and people are often quick to accept excuses they don’t mind hearing.”

“You cut to the point,” Clark said. “It isn’t so important why he said he’s invading, but that he is. General, do you have any ideas concerning their strategy?”

“The key to controlling Alaska is Anchorage,” General Alan said. “At least half the population lives in and around the city. The rail and road net are concentrated there and it contains an international airport. Anchorage also happens to be near one of the few places an amphibious force could land.”

“What about the cross-polar assault?” the President asked.

“Our analysis teams have carefully combed recent intelligence data concerning the buildup in Ambarchik Base,” General Alan said. “It certainly is troubling. Unfortunately, we have lost our recon resources over the Arctic Ocean, and the Chinese keep destroying whatever we put up. So far, at least, there are no reports of enemy combatants in Prudhoe Bay or ANWR.”

“The fact the Chinese want to keep us in the dark over the Arctic Ocean tells us all we need to know,” the President said.

“Either that, sir,” General Alan said, “or that is what they want us to believe.”

President Clark frowned. “We need accurate data for an informed decision. I want reconnaissance flights made over the Arctic Ocean.”

“Yes, sir,” General Alan said. “We have several squadrons of winterized aircraft there, but almost no specialized UAVs for that environment.”

“Send them,” Clark said.

“It will take time.”

“Then start doing it now.” Clark drummed his fingers on the table as he glanced at Anna. “In order for everyone here to gain a clearer picture of who we’re dealing with, I would also like you, Ms. Chen, to give us a quick profile on the Chairman.”

Anna blushed as every eye turned toward her. “What specifics do you wish to know, sir?”

“Brief us on what you think is important for us to know about him.”

“Yes, sir,” Anna said. She sat quietly for a moment, thinking. Then she began to speak.

ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul awoke as the snowcat clanked up a pressure ridge. This one was an easy thirty feet higher than the surrounding terrain. The cat and therefore Paul’s seat tilted back at a steep angle.

He gripped the underside of his seat and looked out the right-side window. The pressure ridge snaked lengthways for as far as he could see. In the past, two plates of sea-ice had smashed against each other, grinding this ridge into existence. Icebreaker captains—those who used heavily-hulled ships to create a passage through ice—avoided pressure ridges if they could. Like an iceberg, pressure ridges had deeper ice below the waterline than what showed above. If it went thirty feet up here, the pressure ridge likely went an easy sixty or ninety feet down into the ocean.

Red Cloud sat transfixed, with his leathery hands gripped at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel. In the back, Murphy groaned. Paul had examined him earlier. There was a bullet in Murphy and he was getting worse. The man needed medical attention or he’d likely die.

Ice broke under the cat’s left tread so they sank into a soft area. The machine lurched leftward. It threw Murphy across the back, so his head hit one of the windows. It would have thrown Paul, but his muscles strained as he hung onto the underside of his seat. He’d taken his seatbelt off earlier so he could sleep easier. That had been a mistake.

Gunning the cat, Red Cloud accelerated them out of danger. He reached the top, and now the snowcat started down at a steep angle. Paul stared down at the snow, using his feet to keep him from catapulting against the windshield. If the Algonquin wasn’t careful, the machine would summersault down.

Paul wanted to shout at Red Cloud to be careful. He didn’t dare, however, fearing to break the Algonquin’s concentration.

Several minutes later, the cat straightened as it clanked off the pressure ridge and back onto the flat polar ice that extended into the darkness. They had an easy three hundred miles to go still before they reached Dead Horse. It might as well have been three thousand miles. It seemed like a trip to the moon—an impossibility.

“Thanks,” Murphy groaned from the back.

Paul glanced at Red Cloud. The Algonquin seemed lost in his own world, staring into the distance. Twisting around, Paul asked, “How you feeling?”

Murphy’s eyes were closed. Even thought it was relatively warm in here, he had his parka zipped up all the way to his throat, and he wore his hood. His face was slick with sweat, and he was white, much too white.

“Murphy, talk to me.”

Licking his moist lips, Murphy whispered, “My stomach feels as if it’s on fire. Where are we?”

“We’re headed home.”

Murphy opened a bleary eye. “Did you kill some of those gooks back at the rig?”

“Yeah, we got a few.”

Murphy coughed weakly, and it must have hurt. Each cough contorted his sweaty face. “I ain’t going to make it home, tough guy.”

“You hang in there,” Paul said.

Murphy shook his head. “My stomach—I can’t take much more of this pain. And the way the Indian drives, I think he’s trying to kill me.”

“You’re tough, Murphy. You hang tight.”

“You’re bull-headed, Kavanagh. And you have fists like granite. But you’re a crappy liar. I’m dying.” Murphy’s eyes opened as he stared at Paul. For the first time that Paul could remember, there was fear on Murphy’s face.

“I don’t want to die,” Murphy said. “I don’t want to…you know…face God for the things I’ve done. You believe in God?”

“…I guess so,” Paul said, not liking this kind of talk.

“Me too,” Murphy said. It seemed as if he tried to keep his eyes open, but they closed on their own accord. He shuddered, and his lips parted. He wheezed. It was a bad, bubbly sound.

Paul saw a trickle of red on Murphy’s lower lip. Reaching over the seat, he gripped the man’s wrist. “You hang on, Ranger. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” came the whispered word. “I don’t want to die.”

Paul’s grip tightened. Murphy’s skin was hot. He had to be well over one hundred and two degrees. Paul didn’t want to watch Murphy die in agonizing pain. The ex-Army Ranger was a hard case and a bully, but he was one of them, one of the Blacksand team at Arctic P-53.

“We’re almost out of gas,” Red Cloud said.

Paul released Murphy’s wrist and slid back into his seat. Before them was a vast plain of white, an icy Hell without end. With a bitter, deep-down loathing, Paul was beginning to hate the darkness.

“I guess the Chinese didn’t need to chase us,” Paul said. “We’re already dead out here.”

Red Cloud shook his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Paul watched the Algonquin. He didn’t like Red Cloud, mainly because the Indian hated him and had fired him. Nevertheless, Paul had to admit the man didn’t have any quit in him. It helped him hang on because there was no way he was going to let a French-Canadian Algonquin outdo him.

“We should have looted some of their snowshoes,” Paul said.

“We have skis,” Red Cloud said.

Paul glanced back where Murphy lay on piles of supplies. “I don’t see any skis.”

“I strapped them up top.”

A ghost of a smile touched Paul’s lips. “Cross-country skis?”

“And a toboggan.”

“Good. We can lay Murphy on it and drag him with us.”

Red Cloud glanced at Paul, giving him a deadpan look. “Murphy stays with the cat.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Paul said.

Red Cloud examined his face before studying the terrain again. “The Arctic is a harsh land with harsh rules. If you want to die, we can take Murphy.”

“That’s why we Marines kicked the crap out of you separatists. We took care of our own.”

“You won because there were more of you than us, with more and bigger weapons. It is an old story.”

“You want to just bug-out on a dying man?” asked Paul.

“No. I do not want too.”

“Then what are you saying?” asked Paul.

“You already said it. He is dying. Should we then die for the sake of a gesture?”

Paul twisted around, looking at Murphy. “I can’t leave him. It’s wrong, just wrong.”

“White Tiger Commandos attacked our rig,” Red Cloud said. “We must warn Blacksand about it.”

“I ain’t arguing with you about it. You leave if you want too. I’m pulling Murphy and that’s final.”

“You will die with him.”

“We’ll see.”

Red Cloud scowled. “We need the toboggan to carry our supplies.”

“Don’t you have any soul?” whispered Paul.

“No! I am an Indian, a savage.” There was fire in Red Cloud’s eyes. He spoke bitterly. “You are morally superior to me. That is why the Europeans were able to steal our land and rape our spirits. I am no more than an animal.”

Retreating from the sarcasm, Paul stared out his window. “You said it earlier, Chief. The Europeans had more guns and soldiers. I don’t know anything about moral imperative. What I do know is that the Marines taught me to carry my own back to our lines.”

“That is a worthy ideal when one possesses the means. Here, it is different. The choices are stark because the land will kill you otherwise.” Red Cloud glanced at the gas-gage.

Paul did, too. They’d had a few extra fuel pods of gas. Those were all dry now. Maybe, if Red Cloud drove carefully, they had another thirty miles before they ran out of fuel.

“He is already dying,” Red Cloud said.

Angrily, Paul lurched back, grabbing one of Murphy’s ankles. “Don’t listen to him.”

Murphy looked up groggily. “Huh?” he whispered, craning his neck. Then his head sagged back. It made him wheeze worse than before.

“Maybe we can take the bullet out of him,” Paul said.

Red Cloud breathed through his nose and kept driving.

Twenty-nine miles later, the snowcat died. The engine sputtered several times and it quit. They were out of gas, stranded on a vast white plain of polar ice. Overhead, the stars glittered with breathtaking beauty.

Red Cloud sat there as he released the steering wheel, his hands dropping like dead weights.

Paul had been thinking hard, wrestling with the ideas of life, death, honor and duty. He desperately wanted to see Cheri and Mikey again. The feeling had become an ache in his heart. And the thought that he’d die up here on the Arctic ice—it ate at him. Slowly, he roused himself, twisted around and shook Murphy’s ankle.

“Hey, you awake?” asked Paul.

Red Cloud clicked on the cat’s inner lights. The engine was dead, but they still had battery power.

Murphy’s skin had a greenish tinge. The area around his eyes was harsh red. With a shallow gasp, Murphy flickered his eyelids open to stare at Paul.

Paul swallowed hard.

“I don’t hear the engine,” Murphy whispered.

Paul said, “We’re out of gas.”

“That…that isn’t good.”

Paul forced himself to look at Murphy. “How you feeling?”

“Like it’s time for a rematch between us. This time, I’m going to kick your butt good.”

“Do you feel like going outside?”

Murphy’s lips compressed together. A false smile gave him a ghastly look. “Hey, Kavanagh, I’ve been dreaming about you two. You were discussing about what to do with me.”

“Yeah?”

“The Indian is right. I’m a dead man. You got to leave me here.”

Paul shook his head.

“But…” Murphy whispered, “I got to ask you a favor.”

The words came hard to Paul. “I can’t shoot you.”

“Not that. I want you to toast the gook that killed me.”

“Do you know who did it? Can you describe him to me?”

“I’ve been listening. It was a White Tiger Commando, one of them Chinese killers.”

“I don’t know which one,” Paul said.

“So you got to kill them all, Kavanagh. Grease them bastards for me.”

Miserably, Paul nodded.

“I want you to promise me. I want to hear it out loud. I want to know that I’ve sent me an avenging killer on their Chinese butts. Think you can do that?”

Paul reached out and took Murphy’s hand. “I’ll grease the one who killed you.”

“Which one?”

“All of them,” whispered Paul.

Murphy barely nodded. Then he relaxed as a grim smile stretched his lips. “Kill them all, Kavanagh, every stinking one of them.”

***

Paul wore cross-country skis and a heavy pack. It was cold outside, with a wind ruffling the fur ringing his hood. Red Cloud had skis and hooked a harness to his shoulders. The toboggan had the rest of their supplies, mostly the food that Paul had scrounged out of the mess hall. There were a few weapons and more ammo.

Inside the cat, Murphy stared out at him. The ex-Ranger’s breath hardly fogged the window.

“This is wrong,” Paul whispered.

“It is the way of the Arctic,” Red Cloud said.

Paul stared at Murphy, and he raised his arm. Murphy looked out, but he didn’t acknowledge the salute. Paul noticed the glaze to the ex-Ranger’s eyes. Maybe Murphy was already seeing into the next world.

Paul opened his mouth. He felt sick, with a grinding emptiness in his gut. It was like being in court again and hearing the judge say that Cheri had full custody of Mikey. The thought he’d never see his boy again had almost doubled him over in agony that day. He’d almost shouted in court, almost let tears drip from his eyes. That had been the hardest thing in his life. Leaving Murphy, it would always stain him.

Paul tried to swallow, but he couldn’t. Slowly, he slid his skis toward the cat.

“We must leave,” Red Cloud said.

Paul felt like a zombie, cursed to live like one of the undead. He yanked open the driver’s side door. Leaning over the tracks, he said, “Murphy?”

Silence.

“I’m sorry, Murphy,” Paul said, and moisture stung his eyes. “I’m sorry. I want to see my boy, my ex-wife. If I thought you’d live—”

“Remember your promise,” Murphy wheezed.

Paul was nodding. He’d remember. He had to remember because otherwise he could never look in a mirror again. He had a promise to fulfill before he got home. Grease the White Tiger Commandos who had killed everyone at the oilrig.

“Go,” wheezed Murphy. “Get it done.”

Paul slammed the door shut. It felt as if a steel door slammed down in his heart. It felt as if something good died in there. In its place was an icy resolve of hatred to keep his promise.

Murphy stared out of the window, his gaze seeing somewhere else than this world.

Paul shifted his shoulders, turned away from the stranded cat and began to slide his skis south to Dead Horse.

-10-

Amphibious Landing

PRCN PAO FENG

First Rank Lu Po was bitter. After destroying two American carriers in San Francisco Harbor, he’d expected to return to China to a hero’s welcome. Instead, he presently donned a wetsuit, ready to join the team going ashore tonight. They were supposed to take out several observation posts along an Alaskan beach in the Kenai Peninsula.

Closed-circuit cylinders sat beside lockers as eight other Commandos donned wetsuits. They moved around on hard rubber matting, with several bulbs providing light. It was tight quarters in here, with a closed hatch to Lu’s right and another hatch leading to the airlock chamber. The recycled air in the submarine tasted of oil and it left a gummy feeling on his face.

Beside Lu, slender Fighter Rank Wang shoved his leg into a wetsuit. They shared the same bench, and were slightly apart from the others.

Lu and Wang had escaped out of San Francisco Bay on their T-9, the only White Tiger Commandos to make it out alive. Lu had decided against surfacing and killing Wang along the way. The small karate expert had proved himself by knifing one of the East Lightning political officers on the trawler. Lu remembered worrying about finding a Chinese submarine. There had been one on picket duty in the coordinates given them. After they’d boarded, the submarine’s captain had received orders to head north to Alaska.

Instead of a hero’s welcome back home in China, Lu Po and Wang found themselves unceremoniously joining the submarine’s Commando team.

“You will be with us for the duration,” the captain had told him.

That had been four thousand kilometers ago. Now the invasion fleet used its strike-craft to pound military targets all along the southern Alaskan coast. The submarine presently negotiated the entrance to Cook Inlet. The body of water went all the way to Anchorage. Lu had heard one of the submariners say the Americans had mined Cook Inlet, at least the northern half past the town of Kenai. Maybe they’d put a few stray mines out here.

The idea of drowning in a submarine churned within Lu. The good news was the invasion fleet’s aircraft had demolished countless American airbases along the coast, although Lu had heard they’d only gotten a few parked planes. Apparently, the Americans had been wise enough to ferry the aircraft farther inland. According to what Lu had heard, the carrier bombers had sunk any ship or sub daring to challenge Chinese naval supremacy. Now came the hard part, however, taking the land.

“I’ve heard every American in Alaska is a deer-slayer,” Wang whispered as he sat on the bench.

Lu shrugged as he glanced at the others. They all seemed self-absorbed, either donning or re-checking their equipment. Leaning near Wang, he whispered, “It is wrong making us take part in this dangerous task.”

“Why do you fear?” whispered Wang. “After destroying two carriers in the middle of an American harbor, this should be easy.”

“Do you think it works like that?” whispered Lu. “We’ve used up our luck surviving San Francisco. Hard task—great luck. So-called easy task like this—bad luck.”

Wang shook his head. “We’re heroes. Heroes always survive. You must cheer up.”

“How do you expect me to do that?” whispered Lu. “We should be home, paraded on TV. A Politburo minister should be handing us our marriage permits. Girls should be lining up for us to inspect them. Now we’re risking our necks after we’ve used up more luck than most people have in a lifetime. It is wrong for them to be doing this to us.”

Wang glanced around at the others. “You must be careful what you say. We’re not on our own anymore, at least, not until they send us ashore.”

Lu nodded. It was good advice. These fellow White Tigers would surely not report on them. However, there could be listening devices as an East Lightning political officer gauged their morale. It would not do if theirs was found wanting.

“If it is girls you desire,” Wang said in a lighter tone, “you may find some sooner than you think in Anchorage.”

Despite his worries, Lu grinned at the idea. He’d thought about girls while trawling through San Francisco Harbor. He’d heard many stories about American women. They were very easy, giving themselves to any man who bought them alcohol.

“I know how we could conquer Alaska in a minute,” Lu said loudly.

The other White Tigers looked up questioningly.

“Tell us,” Wang said.

Lu grinned as he looked from Commando to Commando. “High Command should promise each soldier that he can keep the first girl he captures.”

Several White Tigers laughed. Others nodded. Two appeared thoughtful.

Wang also laughed as he adjusted his weapons belt. “That is an excellent idea. I would race to one of their strip clubs.”

That brought out a few more laughs.

“Yes,” said Lu, liking his idea the more he thought about it. “I would make my captured girls twirl around a dancing pole. I’d watch with a gun held in my hand as I drank American whiskey. I would tell them I’d shoot the worst dancer. Then those easy American girls would twirl around the dance pole for me, trying their hardest to please me. The one that pleased me the most, I would mount her there to test her quality.”

“Why don’t the leaders think of things like that?” shouted a White Tiger.

Lu shrugged as he headed for the hatch. “Maybe they have. Maybe that’s why we’re invading Alaska. China lacks women. Now we shall use our excess young men to grab the prettiest women in the world, starting here.”

“To victory!” shouted Wang.

“To victory and much American tail!” shouted Lu.

The rest of the White Tigers roared approval. Then as a group, they headed for the airlock.

***

Kicking through the frigid water wearied Lu. His face quickly became numb. This was nothing like San Francisco. Crawling onto the snowy gravel shore was a relief. In the darkness beside him, Wang looked like a watery monster with a grotesquely humped back.

Other White Tigers emerged from the frigid waters. It seemed to Lu that it would have been wiser to attack Alaska in the summer.

Evergreen pines abounded here, with boulders, ice and snow making a treacherous beach. They were to seek out and destroy American observation posts. The main invasion would occur to the south, but they were here to spread confusion among the Americans.

“Hurry,” said Lu.

Each of the White Tigers divested himself of his wetsuit. Each then donned a dinylon body-armor suit and a HUD helmet linked to his chosen weapon.

Taking out a computer-scroll, Lu checked his map. The Alaskan State Highway One was up and over the slope. To the south of them was the town of Homer.  Lu pointed at the scroll-map to Wang. They were north of Ninilchik but south of the bigger and slightly inland town of Soldotna.

Their briefing had been intense. The Americans used a Militia organization to help them fight. Militiamen often used civilian vehicles and civilian weaponry. Their secondary mission was to destroy patrols. It was felt that every vehicle they encountered would belong to the Militia or the Alaskan National Guard. Once the spotted observation posts were eliminated, they were to destroy vehicles and kill passengers. Spreading confusion and fear would help destabilize the enemy in the invasion areas.

“I hear a vehicle!” shouted a White Tiger.

“Hurry,” said Lu. He charged up the snowy slope, having donned his body-armor suit and calibrating his weapon with his Heads Up Display faster than most.

Wang hurried beside him. “This is like our training in Siberia.”

Lu grunted. He remembered that grueling time. Fifteen seconds later, he threw himself onto the snow. The highway was below, a thin ribbon of blacktop. He spotted a darkened vehicle. It was an SUV, with a heavy machinegun bolted to the top. A man stood behind it.

The American shouted to those in the SUV. It stopped. Doors opened. Men with rifles stepped outside.

“Destroy it,” said Lu.

Lying on the snow beside him, with pines on either side of them, Wang lifted a magnetic-pulse grenade-launcher. The targeting information was on the visor of Wang’s helmet, a crosshairs appearing at whatever he pointed his grenade-launcher at.

There was a whoosh, and something dark flew. It hit the SUV and exploded. The vehicle made harsh metallic sounds, with shouts added from the men trying to climb out.

“Excellent!” shouted Lu. He swiveled around and pointed at two slope-climbing White Tigers. Then he pointed down at the flipped SUV.

Two white-camouflaged Commandos ran down the slope. They shot American survivors.

Lu was already watching north along the road for more vehicles. There were crackling sounds in the woods then.

“What was that?” asked Wang.

“Militiamen are firing at us,” said a Commando. The words came over Lu’s helmet.

“Give me your position,” said Lu.

“Nine-five-A,” the Commando said.

Lu checked his grid map. “Come with me,” he told Wang. “Chin has found enemy combatants.”

Lu ran toward Chin, with his assault rifle ready. It was a QBZ-23. These had special cartridges. Ignoring the Geneva Convention, they had dum-dum bullets. A tiny piece of mercury was in a cavity at the front of each bullet. When the lead of the bullet struck an object, the mercury thrust forward, exploding outward and making the bullet like a fragmentation device, like a grenade. Dum-dum bullets made horrible, intimidating wounds.

“Down, First Rank!”

Lu heard the words in his helmet. He hit the snow and used his chin to switch his helmet sighting to infrared. Several manlike shapes hid among nearby pines. He counted them. Five American Militiamen fired into the darkness.

“Wait,” Lu whispered to the others, using his microphone to whisper into their helmets.

The Americans stopped firing and began moving single-file. They wore assorted clothing, one of them a bright yellow color, visible in the moonlight. A different American spoke on a cell phone. No doubt, they were reporting the grenade-fire and were now checking to see what had happened.

“They have no tactical sense,” said Wang.

“They are stupid Americans,” Lu agreed. He clicked a switch on his assault rifle, going to full auto. “Ready?” he said into his microphone.

The affirmatives told him what he needed to know.

“Fire,” said Lu.

From three directions, bullpup assault rifles opened up. The five Americans went down. None of them returned fire.

“Truly they are fools,” said Wang.

“Surprised fools,” Lu agreed. “Now go, check them.”

Wang leaped up and hurried there. Moments later, he returned to report they were dead.

“We must complete our mission,” said Lu. “Come. It is time to eliminate the observation posts.”

HOMER, ALASKA

Two hundred and twenty-six miles from Anchorage was the town of Homer. The Great American Highway System stopped here at the base of a narrow spit that jutted four miles into Kachemak Bay. There were chunks of coal along the beaches. The lumps had washed up into the bay from nearby slopes where the coal seams were exposed. In the late 1800s, Homer had first been a gold mining town and then a coal-mining headquarters for the region. Now the small town was a mixture of rundown tourist shops, a few fisheries and old repair yards. It used to boast a thriving community of artists, sculptors, actors and writers, but that had passed during the Sovereign Debt Depression.

Homer possessed one of the few good beaches on which to land an invasion force of naval infantry. Therefore, the C-in-C of Alaska, General Sims, had rushed south an Airborne battalion and a National Guard battalion. He’d also sent several companies of Militia with them. Above the beach, combat engineers with armored bulldozers feverishly created shelters for M2 Bradleys. The infantry dug holes for heavy machineguns and ATGMs. Behind them were SAM emplacements and Blowdart missile teams. Several miles back rose artillery tubes.

“Hit them before they get ashore,” General Sims had told the airborne general in charge of Homer.

“What if they hit us first?” the general asked.

“Disperse your troops as you see fit,” said Sims. “Make a layered defense and make sure you dig.”

The airborne general had done just that. He had a little less than fifteen hundred soldiers of varying quality to halt a crack Chinese invasion force. But he was determined to make the Chinese pay for whatever they hoped to achieve.

***

The Chinese Fleet moved into position as over five hundred aircraft and helicopters took up station in the air. The landing area was five kilometers wide by four kilometers deep. Three primary control ships marked the area. The carriers remained well out of this zone, staying fifty kilometers off the coast. Large ships carrying the landing craft entered the invasion zone. It took ninety-five minutes for them to launch the landing craft.

Cruisers and destroyers began to pound the beach with their missiles and cannons, raining a hail of computer-directed munitions, guided by GPS satellites and drones. As this occurred, the amphibious boats lined up three-and-half kilometers from shore.

Now bombers, fighter-bombers and assault helicopters attacked the two American battalions defending the beach and the slopes behind the beach. Some Wyvern and Blowdart missiles roared out of their launchers, but it proved hard for the National Guard operators to burn through Chinese jamming. Unfortunately, the American radar signals brought Hell down onto them, guiding air-to-surface missiles with unerring accuracy. That opened the defenders to a rain of terror. Bombs, napalm and guided missiles murdered the Americans in their hastily built bunkers and foxholes.

Some soldiers fled. Many fired back. That’s when the Chinese helicopters dropped into attack mode. They looked like armored insects, with stubby little wings with missiles attached. The armored choppers were ugly things that could spew death better than any old-time Apache helicopter. They hung in the air, launching missiles, destroying the remaining Bradleys and Humvees. At that point, they roared forward as their 25mm chainguns hosed the remaining Americans brave enough to fire heavy weapons up at them.

As attack-choppers hunted for anything moving, Chinese infantry-carrying helicopters flew over the beach and over Homer. They stayed higher up and looked heavy and deadly. None landed on the beach. None landed in Homer. The big choppers flew past the old town and soon disappeared over the mountains. They would spill their cargoes farther inland, cordoning off the amphibious-assault landing zone.

The chief control officer out at sea now ordered the first amphibious wave. A swarm of the landing boats, all carefully lined up, steamed for the coal-littered shore.

The Snapping Turtle amphibious boats were the armored personnel carriers of the assault. Each displaced thirteen tons and was eleven meters long. It had a three-man crew and carried twenty-five grim-faced naval infantry ready to charge ashore. The main assault was coming.

***

Sergeant Byers of the Alaskan National Guard manned a TOW2 launcher. He hunkered in his foxhole, hidden under an anti-radar tarpaulin. Wide-eyed, with his hands on the foxhole’s dirt, he surveyed the wreckage around him.

There were overturned and burning Humvees and M2 Bradleys. One flipped Bradley had crushed a soldier, with his lone hand sticking out of the wreckage. Men and body-parts were strewn here and there. One headless corpse still clutched his grenade launcher. The Chinese radar and advanced EW had badly outclassed American technology. The heavy ordnance from the ships offshore, air-to-ground missiles from the helicopters and napalm from the bombers had smashed the defense to smithereens.

Byers had large welder’s hands, they were dry and had cracks and seams in them like a man twice his age. He was one of the few survivors of the murderous and multi-layered bombardment. There had been two others with him in the foxhole. They had fled, and died in the shockwave concussions of five-hundred pound bombs. Byers stared out of his foxhole. The stink of napalm, the pork-like stench of burnt humans and the sting of explosives in his nostrils was a nauseating smell, one of bitter defeat.

Where had everyone gone? Were they all dead? Was he the last American defending Homer?

Byers scanned the water. His reward wasn’t long in coming. Twenty-three amphibious personnel carriers, Snapping Turtles, churned through the gray waves. They headed for Homer’s beaches with their lumps of coal and American dead.

Byers knew there were enemy minesweepers out there, enemy carriers, cruisers, destroyers and cargo vessels. Chinese air patrolled everywhere. This was a catastrophe. No one defended the landing zone anymore. After rushing here from Anchorage and working day and night—the Chinese were getting a free ride onto Alaskan soil.

Sergeant Byers shook his head. Maybe not altogether a free ride. He was still alive. Taking a calming breath, Byers studied the amphibious landing craft. The waves were low today. He doubted any of the Chinese riflemen were seasick.

Far out in the distance, Byers made out the silhouette of several Chinese warships.

I wonder what happened to our fleet.

He shrugged after a moment. None of that mattered anymore. He squeezed his eyes closed and with a flick of his fingers, he turned on the TOW2 system. There was a frozen smile on his face as he activated the controls and targeted the nearest amphibious boat. There was a popping sound. Then the missile whooshed into life, and it zoomed across the waters at a Chinese amphibious carrier.

Mentally, Sergeant Byers counted the seconds. Then an explosion over the waters showed him where the missile demolished the amphibious carrier and its invasion squads.

“Boom,” Byers whispered.

He reloaded and targeted another amphibious carrier, launching a second missile. It hit and destroyed another invasion craft. Sergeant Byers reloaded a third time and was busy targeting his third amphibious carrier when he heard a deadly whomp-whomp in the air. He glanced up over his shoulder. A Chinese attack chopper roared at him.

Small-arms fire popped around him. There were other Americans left. They fired at the armored chopper.

Breathing hard, Byers turned back to his controls, targeted another amphibious carrier—

The attack helicopter’s chaingun whirled into life. Before Byers could launch this third missile, steel-jacketed bullets, over two hundred of them, obliterated him, his launcher and the rest of the missiles. Afterward, the helicopter hunted the Americans firing at it.

Because of the helicopter, Byers missed the initial landing. He missed the amphibious craft roaring onto the coal-dotted beach. He missed the front gates crashing open. He missed the Chinese as they waded ashore. The naval infantry wore dinylon-armor jackets and most held assault rifles. In the watery distance came the second wave hot on the heels of the first. The corpse of Sergeant Byers saw none of these things, although one Chinese soldier emptied a magazine of bullets into his bleeding body.

The invasion of Alaska had begun in earnest.

PRCN SUNG

An angry Admiral Ling, the commanding officer of the invasion fleet, sipped hot tea as he watched his bank of intelligence officers. They typed information into the operational battle screens.

The OBS took up one wall of the room in the supercarrier Sung, the largest carrier in the world. The big screens showed the Kenai Peninsula. The first amphibious assault at Homer had succeeded brilliantly, almost without cost. The second assault to take Seward at a different location on the peninsula had been botched by the Vice-Admiral in command of operations there. The Vice-Admiral was the Chairman’s nephew, however. Even now, the man was untouchable, and that galled Ling.

One-armed Admiral Ling frowned as he watched the last Chinese helicopter over Seward crash. He set his teacup into its saucer and rubbed the right side of his face, the good side that still had feeling. The attack had destroyed American Strykers defending Seward, but not all of them. The town was still in enemy hands.

Ling glanced at Commodore Yen, a tall man in his fifties wearing a VR monocle. The Chinese media loved interviewing Commodore Yen because of his good looks and military bearing. In the service, Yen was known for his political caution, always testing before making any statement. Perhaps it was the reason the Party let the media interview him so often.

“Do the Americans have our communication codes?” asked Admiral Ling. “Is that how they achieved their success in Seward?”

Commodore Yen shook his head. “Our intelligence operatives are too good to have allowed such a thing to pass to the enemy. No. I think fate aided the Americans in Seward. For reasons I cannot fathom, our helicopter assaults—”

“There was a total lack of coordination between the attack and carrier helicopters,” said Ling.

“Some unseen incident must have interrupted the good planning,” Yen said, as he glanced meaningfully at the bank of intelligence operatives at their stations.

Ling adjusted the empty left sleeve of his uniform. Then he turned on Yen. “The piecemeal attacks were a practice in stupidity.”

Commodore Yen said nothing.

Ling scowled. He had several items on his mind. The American ASBM attack had struck and destroyed two large fuel tankers. Maybe the guidance systems in the ballistic missiles had noted the large size of the tankers and assumed they were carriers. Unfortunately, the Chinese Navy only owned a few fleet tankers. Fortunately, there had been a solution.

These days, much of the world came to China for oil, and some of the trade was moved in Chinese bottoms. The Navy couldn’t use crude tankers, those vessels that hauled crude oil. It needed product tankers, those that carried refined petrochemicals. However, the nation’s oil barons had fiercely fought the Navy’s demand for commercial tankers. In the end, the oil barons, who were high in the Party hierarchy, had allowed a few of their product tankers to join the expedition, lending the Navy several of their largest. The Navy had added UNREP gear to them, defensive guns and military electronics.

Despite the size and strength of the Chinese Navy, it only had a few of its own fuelling ships or replenishment oilers as they were called. Initially, China had built a short-range coastal fleet. Only in the last decade had they truly attempted to form a blue-water navy. They hadn’t yet built-up the support ships necessary for maintaining a long-range war. One of the more critical lacks was enough replenishment oilers.

Several days ago, Admiral Ling had desperately defended his supercarriers from the ASBMs. It was almost as bitter a blow losing two product tankers as it would have been losing another carrier with its accompanying fighters and bombers. Too much of the invasion’s fuel requirements were afloat in several huge tankers. The loss of those tankers meant that the invasion’s reserves were lower than he liked. Already he’d sent word back to Admiral Qingshan of the Ruling Committee on the need for more tankers, for more fuel. Ling wanted to build-up larger stocks, larger reserves. Naval Minister Qingshan had told him that the Chairman had declined the request, saying the invasion fleet had quite enough fuel to achieve the task.

Ling had decided he would have more than enough reserves if he could get his hands on American fuel, particularly the big storage depots used for the luxury cruise-ships in Seward. Most of the Navy ships used diesel, as did the vast majority of the ground combat vehicles. Now the Vice-Admiral had botched his first attempt to grab Seward and its fuel. Couldn’t the man achieve the simplest tasks?

“Sir,” a communications captain said, looking up from his computer. “The Vice-Admiral would like to call off the assault on Seward for today. He wants assault helicopters and cargo-carriers sent over so he can coordinate a new assault tomorrow or the day after tomorrow.”

Admiral Ling glanced at Commodore Yen. “Why can’t the Vice-Admiral ever achieve his tasks with grace and efficiency?”

“I would remind you that he is the Chairman’s nephew,” the Commodore said in a low voice. “…perhaps it is ill-advised to so publicly admonish his valiant efforts today.”

“No doubt you speak the truth,” Ling said. He picked up his teacup and sipped the cooling liquid. He frowned. He wanted hot tea, not this tepid drink. Setting the cup back in its saucer, he thought to himself that assaults were like tea. You needed to drink them while they were hot. You needed to strike fast and do it well the first time. His frown deepened as he told Yen, “I want that fuel in Seward. I want to raise our reserves to higher levels.”

“Do you have a premonition, sir?” asked the Commodore.

Admiral Ling turned to the communications captain. “Explain to the Vice-Admiral that I expect his naval infantry to control the town and the fuel depot by nightfall.”

“As you wish, sir,” the captain said, lowly speaking into his communication device.

“Is that wise?” the Commodore whispered.

“We must be in Anchorage before the cold sets in,” Admiral Ling said.

“Is there any need for worry? We have time before the worst weather hits.”

“The glaciation has changed the weather patterns,” Ling said. “Bad weather begins a month earlier here, maybe even six weeks earlier than twenty years ago. This is a terrible time of the year to begin an invasion.”

“Sir,” Yen whispered, shaking his head.

Ling stared at the OBS. “I fear that more ill-fortune waits for us. Therefore, I desire Seward, its fuel and the rail-line to Anchorage. If we can split the American defense, one attack starting from Homer and another from Seward—”

“The Vice-Admiral will capture the town, sir.”

“He hasn’t yet.”

The Commodore leaned nearer. “Sir, for you own safe-keeping, I wish you would send the Vice-Admiral a congratulatory note on his hard fighting.”

“Do you call losing all your helicopters hard fighting?”

The Commodore glanced around before he whispered, “Our men hurt the enemy. You can congratulate the Vice-Admiral on that.”

“How did he achieve this miracle?” Ling asked. “By dropping his helicopters on them? No. I will congratulate the Vice-Admiral when he does something commendable. Until then, let him strive as we ordinary mortals have learned to do. Maybe in this way he can learn from his mistakes.”

Tall Commodore Yen with the VR monocle frowned at those words. “It is always wise to remember who his uncle is, sir.”

Admiral Ling could never forget. Why had they saddled him with the Vice-Admiral? The man was rash, given to impulses. In war of this sort, careful attention to detail won the day. Just how hard could it be to capture one of these small Alaskan ports?

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

A National Guard captain named Jones stared at Stan Higgins. In regular life, Captain Jones ran a manure factory. He was balding, with red-veined eyes and missing the last three fingers of his left hand. He’d lost that in a compactor twelve years ago. Jones’s uniform was baggy and he slouched, but he was good at administration and belonged to General Sims’s staff. Sims was the C-in-C of Alaskan defense.

Stan and Jones were in the National Guard Armory, a huge garage with ten Abrams M1A2 tanks inside. Outside in the yard were Heavy Equipment Transporters, HETS. The tractor hauled the trailer, able to transport seventy tons worth of equipment. They’d been designed to haul the heavy M1A2 Abrams tank at sixty-two tons plus gas and shells. The HETS could also accommodate the four crewmen of the original M1 design.

Sitting at a table, Captain Jones lifted the screen of his laptop. With the touch-screen, he showed Stan the Kenai Peninsula, with Anchorage up in the middle top. The peninsula guarded Anchorage, with Cook Inlet to the west and Prince William Sound to the east and with the Gulf of Alaska filling in the south. The Kenai Peninsula looked like a triangle, with the base butted against Anchorage and the farthest tip pointed to the southwest. The Kenai Fjord National Park guarded most of the south of the peninsula with incredibly rugged terrain, with glaciers everywhere. Butted next to the Exit Glacier was the town and ice-free port of Seward.

“Their biggest warships moved in and pounded Seward by cannon,” Jones was saying. “After demolishing a good part of the town, the Chinese used hovertanks and fast-assault boats. Once ashore, they drove Ramos out of Seward.”

Stan knew Brigadier Hector Ramos. In the officer’s club, the man had given him two hundred dollars toward his dad’s bail. Ramos commanded the 1st Stryker Brigade Combat Team, known as ‘the Arctic Wolves.’ They were one of few U.S. Army brigades stationed in Alaska and ready for deployment.

It seemed Ramos has rushed down to Seward with only a battalion, nearly six hundred soldiers. The battalion used the Stryker armored infantry vehicle, which came in at a little over nineteen tons. It was heavier than a Humvee and lighter than a Bradley. A Stryker had eight wheels, and depending on the model, it had various armaments. The majority of Strykers boasted an M2 Browning .50 caliber machinegun, which could be remote-controlled by an operator in the armored vehicle. Other Strykers used an Mk19 40mm belt-fed automatic grenade launcher. Ramos even had a few Strykers with 105mm guns and others with TOW2 launchers. They could move along paved roads at sixty-five mph. Each had sensors that judged various types of terrain: snow, road, gravel, etc. The vehicles automatically changed the air pressure in all eight of their tires for maximum maneuvering capability.

Stryker speed had no doubt allowed Ramos to reach Seward in time to engage the Chinese. Whether the vehicles were heavy enough to fight toe-to-toe with the invaders—that was another matter.

Jones continued speaking. “After fighting the enemy, Ramos managed to extricate half his battalion from the town and blow the fuel depots there.” Jones sighed. “It’s a disaster in Seward, but at least Ramos has some of his troops left. That’s better than what happened at Homer. Ramos is giving the Chinese a bloodier fight than anyone else has so far. It hardly matters, however, as the Chinese pour soldiers into Seward. Several companies of Militia were rushed to the brigadier, as well as the rest of the Arctic Wolves, but he’s still outnumbered at least four to one. It will likely get worse, too.”

Captain Jones used the touch-screen, aiming the laptop at Stan. “Ramos has his problems, no doubt. But the emergency for us is west along the Number One Highway.”

Jones showed Stan the State Highway One or the Sterling Highway. From Anchorage, it went through Portage and turned southwest, passing through alpine-like mountains until it flattened out around Cooper Landing. The easier, flatter country was still a cold, snowy land abounding in moose, deer and bears and some of the best fishing in the State. The Highway went from Cooper Landing to Sterling, Soldotna, and then it moved almost straight south along the west Kenai coast, hitting Ninilchik, Anchor Point and ending in Homer.

“The Chinese have already taken Homer and Anchor Point,” Jones said. “Unfortunately, we weren’t able to mine Cook Inlet that far south. After landing in and around Homer, it has taken the Chinese a few days to shake out their formations and land enough supplies. We’ve used that time to rush men and material to Ninilchik. The Chinese are using artillery and drone-launched smart bombs on us there. It’s only a matter of time before they force us out of Ninilchik and continue their advance along the highway.” Jones pointed to the immediate west of Tustumena Lake. “General Sims wants a main line of defense here.”

“That seems risky,” said Stan. “With their hovertanks and landing craft, the Chinese can probably flank the position by landing on the coast north of the defense line.”

Captain Jones looked annoyed. “First, the bore tide in Cook Inlet gets much worse the farther north one goes. Second, even as we speak our Navy is slipping more mines into the inlet, extending the minefield’s range. That should keep the Chinese from taking their big ships north of the main defense line. If they try the hovertank, assault-boat tactic without heavy ship support, our aircraft should be able to hit them with missiles. Third and finally, I don’t remember asking your opinion, Captain.”

Stan glanced at Jones. They sat on metal fold-up chairs as they studied the laptop. “Begging your pardon, sir, but one of the strengths of a Western Army is the ability to share ideas and opinions.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Have you ever read any of Victor David Hanson’s military books?” asked Stan.

Captain Jones stared at Stan until finally he nodded. “You’re the one they call Professor, right?”

Stan shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Well, let me tell you something, Professor. We’re not in the classroom. This is war. The Chinese have invaded our country and they’re rolling through it. If they reach Anchorage, it could be game over for holding Alaska. You need to snap out of your shock, come down to reality and listen to what I’m telling you.”

“I am listening, sir.”

“I don’t need any of your history lessons, do you understand?”

“I’m sure you don’t need any lessons, sir. I’m just saying that a defensive line here near the west Kenai coast looks exposed. Why not pull back to the junction here near Soldotna?” Stan pointed at the screen. “Heck, it seems like we should pull back to Cooper Landing. Let’s use the terrain in our favor and force them to funnel their attack onto our guns.”

Captain Jones used his tongue to moisten his lips. “I’ll be sure to relay your concern to General Sims. In the meantime, I’m telling you where you’re taking your tanks.”

“You want us on the main line?” asked Stan.

“If you’re chicken, Professor, you’d better tell me now so I can find someone to do the fighting for us.”

Several of Stan’s National Guard buddies who talked in a clump beside the nearest tank heard that. Jose Garcia, who owned his own mechanic shop, was a heavy man of Mexican descent. He was only five-seven and had trouble moving in and out of the Abrams’ hatch, but he was the best gunner in the company.

“You’d better watch your mouth, Mr. Staff Captain, sir,” Jose said loud enough for Jones to hear.

Captain Jones seemingly chose to ignore that as he kept staring at Stan. The National Guardsmen in Alaska had fallen on hard times as far as discipline and decorum went.

“I’ll fight, sir,” Stan said. “It’s just that these are about the only tanks in Alaska I know of. I’d hate to lose them right at the get go.”

“You listen to me, Captain. I’m not here to argue with you. You’re taking those Abrams and heading for the main line of defense. We don’t know everything the Chinese have, but we sure as fire know what we have, which is just about nothing modern. We’ve rushed half the 4th Airborne Brigade down there and several National Guard line companies. Some of the 16th Combat Aviation Brigade is helping. With them are some summer soldiers with their rifles to fill in the gaps.”

Stan knew that the summer soldiers were the Militiamen. They had been a political offshoot of the secessionist troubles these last ten years especially. The Debt Depression meant the Federal and State governments lacked the monies of the past. In other words, neither the Feds nor the States had the funds to raise more National Guard units or new Army or Reserve units. They kept disbanding military formations because of a lack of money. Then some bright Army officers had convinced the government to let ordinary Americans form militia companies under various state government inspections and controls. The civilians paid for their own uniforms and weapons and received training from National Guard drill instructors. This gave the states more military muscle and at almost no extra cost. It also meant the local communities had armed forces able to patrol the streets. There had been abuses, cries of militarism and outrage. But it had also allowed certain survivalist and anti-government types to march and train under the State government’s eye. They were more paramilitary than military, a local force of shock police, but they did train as squads, platoons and sometimes even as companies. The more rural and hunting States had better militia than the primarily urban States. As befitted Alaska, it had a higher ratio of Militiamen to population because the State had more hunters and fishermen per capita than any other State. It still left Alaska woefully short of military muscle and under-armed, but the Militia was there and now it was being used to help plug the advancing Chinese. One of Stan’ best friends, Pastor Bill Harris of the Rock Church, was a sergeant in the Militia.

Captain Jones took a deep breath before he kept speaking. “The President said he’s going to airlift us reinforcements, while the rest of the Alaskan National Guardsmen are forming up in Anchorage or using the train-line from Fairbanks to come here. Right now, however, your tanks are about the only thing heavy we’ll have to destroy anything cute the Chinese are landing. Our Strykers and even our Bradleys can only do so much in that regard.”

“Yes, sir,” said Stan. “I’m sorry for being so outspoken, sir. This is a desperate time and my mind keeps churning out ideas. You can bet that I’ll do my part when it comes to combat.”

“You’ve sucked off the Guard’s tit for years. Now it’s time to pay up.”

“I understand, sir. Can I ask one more question?”

The captain gave him a guarded looked. “As long as you leave out any historical references, go ahead.”

“How much air cover do we have?”

The captain heaved a sigh. “You’ve got that pegged right. We don’t have much. You load up now, race for Portage and then wait for nightfall. After that, you’re crawling with the haulers to Soldotna. We’ll give you infrared mufflers, about the only ones in the State. We know the Chinese have Commandos crawling everywhere. We’ve sent the best hunters we have after them, but….” The captain shook his head.

“Hunters, sir?” asked Stan. “Airborne hunters?”

“No, deer and bear hunters, Militiamen.” The captain snapped his laptop shut. “The Chinese have gained strategic and operational surprise. We’re doing crazy things to try to hang on until the airlift starts bringing us more soldiers. Now listen up, Professor, and don’t take this the wrong way. You use those tanks to kill Chinese vehicles, but don’t lose any of your M1A2s. That’s not an order to act cowardly—”

“You’d better watch your mouth!” Jose Garcia shouted. “That’s our captain, and he’s five times the soldier you are, baldy.”

“Jose, please,” Stan said. “We’re all under tremendous pressure. Let him do his job.”

Muttering, Jose turned away, causing several other National Guard tankers to turn with him.

“Hurt them, Captain,” said Jones. “But try to bring those tanks back.” He scowled, glanced at Jose and then turned back to Stan. “Right. Your men think you’re okay. That’s a good sign at least. I know I’ve given you contradictory statements, but we’re in a real fix. Good luck…Professor.”

Stan accepted the captain’s hand, and they shook firmly. Once he let go, Stan stood up, turned to his tankers and began to shout orders.

-11-

Invasion

TUSTUMENA LAKE, ALASKA

Reconnaissance showed the Chinese had established a firm beachhead from Homer to Ninilchik. More material poured onto the beaches as the naval brigades began to advance along the coast on the Number One Highway.

During that time, General Sims had rushed soldiers past Soldotna as they built a main line of defense beside Tustumena Lake. Everything from Anchorage had to run the gauntlet of the Number One Highway. Chinese aircraft and helicopters ran interdiction most of the way, but they refrained from using heavy bombs, likely wanting to save the highway as their main line of advance to the city.

“Well,” the airborne colonel in charge of the defense told his staff, “they’re never getting that chance.”

He commanded the heart of the Tustumena Defense, a battalion of the 4th Airborne Brigade with an attached mortar company. National Guard line companies dug in beside his boys. They had their own helicopters this time from the 16th Combat Aviation Brigade. Added to them were two Militia battalions, armed with Army ordnance.

The lake gave them a powerful defensive position. Heavy forests and rolling terrain added to that. The Chinese wanted to use the highway, so they knew the enemy line of advance.

The Battle of Tustumena Lake opened up that night in the cold. The Chinese used remote-controlled Marauder tanks, coming up the highway and probing American defenses. ATGMs rained on the light tanks, destroying several before the others pulled back.

For the next hour, the Chinese continued to probe, with infantry, with mechanized robots and once with a Commando raid. Every time the Chinese withdrew, the Americans gained confidence.

“They hit us by surprise on the beaches,” the airborne colonel told his command staff. “Now they have to fight toe-to-toe with us and they don’t know what to do.”

He couldn’t have been more wrong. During each probing attack, Chinese radio-intercept experts had been monitoring American radio traffic, attempting to pinpoint the CP, Command Post. After the fifth withdraw, the orders went out to a battery of 200mm guns four kilometers away from Tustumena Lake. Chinese gunner-techs typed the targeting data into their fire-control computers. Others loaded high explosive shells into the tubes. Each giant gun trained on the identical azimuth. Minutes later came the command for rapid fire, and the ground shook.

In three minutes, the American CP received over a hundred and fifty shells. The colonel and three-quarters of his staff died under the intense barrage. The others were too wounded and shocked to transmit any orders.

Then the Chinese assault rolled forward as the night erupted with artillery and hundreds of Marauder cannons. It was shock and awe, and soon American Militiamen were streaming from their positions. Knots of stubborn National Guardsmen and U.S. Airborne continued to fight. Concentrated firepower guided by high-grade Chinese battle technology proved irresistible and deadly in the extreme.

The Chinese smashed and swept aside another American defense for negligible Chinese losses.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna sat spellbound as she watched images on a wall-mounted computer-scroll in the lobby of White House Bunker Number Five. Like millions of Americans, perhaps like millions all around the world, she watched Chinese attack choppers flying nap-of-the-Earth—at little more than treetop level.

It was a strange paradox watching the helicopters, because they flew over a Christmas wonderland with pines, snow and awesome background mountains covered in white. Then chainguns opened up from the attack choppers’ nosecones, while anti-personnel missiles streaked down from stubby wings. On the snow near the Alaskan cameraman, U.S. Army trucks exploded and men yelled. Many soldiers and deer-rifle-armed Militiamen tumbled to the ground. The splashes of bright red on the snow told the grim story. One gruesome shot showed a soldier wearing body-armor simply disintegrate as a chaingun’s bullets hosed him to death.

On the computer-scroll, the images moved jerkily up and down as harsh breathing was heard. The cameraman ran for cover as his boots crunched over snow. Then the video image settled on an Alaskan National Guardsman. He wore a bulky parka and knelt on snow. He aimed a Blowdart-missile at the attack choppers. The National Guardsman wore a blue cap, with the bill backward on his head. It was a Seattle Seahawks Football cap. He pulled the trigger and a red contrail showed he got off the anti-air missile. Then the Seahawk soldier slammed backward as chaingun bullets obliterated his body, raining red droplets onto the snow. The video image was a momentary blur, and then Anna followed the speeding missile as it missed a veering helicopter. Once again, Chinese electronics proved superior to American.

In the lobby, Major Johnson, an aide to General Alan, jumped off the far end of the couch. “You Chinese gooks!” Johnson’s blue eyes were hard as he stared angrily at the screen.

Anna Chen’s shoulders hunched. Why did people and men in particular have the need for racial slurs? She did not like the war with China. She desperately hoped for an American victory. Why did these horrible images stir in people the need for racial hatred?

Man is tribal. He has a need to love his own and hate the other. The Chinese kill our tribe, hence, his tribesmen are gooks and worse. As long as we are human, this trait will remain no matter how hard we try to eradicate it.

“Do you see that?” Johnson shouted. “Those dirty gooks don’t fight fair.”

Anna had been looking at Johnson. She now turned back to the screen.

American F-16s screamed out of the overcast, gray sky, with air-to-air missiles launching from under their wings. The Chinese attack choppers fled, racing for a thick stand of pines. Beyond was dirty-colored water, beyond the miles-wide body of water were more pines, those decorated with snow.

A hidden ground-based laser must have fired. An F-16 tumbled earthward, with one of its wings sheared off.

“No,” Johnson groaned.

The other fighters broke off, some diving, others rocketing higher into the sky. Chinese missiles roared after them. It looked now as if the helicopters had been bait for a trap. Another F-16 exploded.

“Such destruction,” Anna said.

Johnson sat down near her, with his hands clasped between his knees. He was intent on the screen. “I don’t know how we can defeat them. Everything they have is newer, better and smarter. From jets to guns—I hear their newest assault rifles have targeting computers. This is going to be a disaster.”

Anna didn’t acknowledge him or his words. His racial epithets earlier still stung.

A wall buzzer went off. Glumly, Johnson checked his cell phone. “The President has returned,” he said. “Are you ready?”

Anna stood up, heading for the conference room.

***

General Alan was speaking about the ongoing retreat into the mountains. Highway One cut across the Kenai Peninsula going from west to east. Moose Pass or Highway Nine went from Seward to Anchorage, south to north.

“Along Highway One,” General Alan said, “the Chinese are smashing everything we put in their path. In Moose Pass, our men give ground grudgingly and slowly. Unfortunately, once the Chinese reach the Junction of Highway One and Nine, the soldiers bottling up the Chinese in Moose Pass will have to retreat.”

“We badly need armor up there,” the Defense Secretary said. “By armor I mean tanks. And not just our outdated M1A2 tanks, we need some of the modern armor. We need more anti-air cover. We need some real soldiers, not just the Alaskan National Guard and Militiamen.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” General Alan said, “the men facing the Chinese are real soldiers.”

“These soldier-boys haven’t stopped the enemy,” the Defense Secretary said.

“We can’t ask them to do more than they’re capable of doing.”

“I do ask that and I will continue to do so,” the Defense Secretary said, pounding the table. “We must halt the Chinese! The main ports are in Anchorage, and the international airport is there. We can’t let the Chinese reach the city. We certainly can’t allow them to break out of Anchorage and get to the mountain passes beyond. If they pour the Chinese Army into South Central Alaska, it would take an American bloodbath to drive them out.”

The thought of that brought silence to the underground chamber.

“We must stop them before Anchorage,” the President said. “We will stop them. First, do we have more information concerning the formations our men our facing?”

“Yes, sir,” said General Alan. “In almost every instance so far, we have faced Chinese naval infantry. They are structured much like our Marine Corps.”

“Sir,” the Defense Secretary said. “Does it matter if they’re naval troops or Chinese Army?”

“What’s your point?” the President asked, sounding nettled.

“The issue at hand, sir,” the Defense Secretary said. “How to stop them dead in their tracks. We keep feeding them units piecemeal, trying to plug their advance. Clearly, that hasn’t been working.”

“What else do you suggest?” the President asked.

“Call the Canadian Prime Minister and talk him into helping us. We helped them during the Quebec Separatist War. Surely, a few Canadian battalions rushed to Alaska could do wonders.”

“The Canadians don’t want anything to do with this,” the Secretary of State said.

“Then we must rush mass reinforcements to Alaska,” the Defense Secretary said.

General Alan spread his slender hands. “Sir, we’ve been trying to do just that.”

“Not hard enough apparently,” the Defense Secretary said.

“It’s not like it used to be,” General Alan said. “Storms rage in the Yukon and in upper British Columbia. Ice and snow block the passes and many of the roads. The storms have cut off Alaska to everything except carefully rerouted air-travel.”

The Defense Secretary slammed the table with his fist. His pudgy face was crimson and his eyes were red-rimmed. He was a Southerner, a hot-tempered man known as ‘the Knife’ for how he’d slashed the defense budget during his time in office.

“The Chinese made an unprovoked attack,” he said. “According to the records, they destroyed a Californian oilrig and then sneakily targeted two of our carriers. There was never a formal declaration of war, simply these unforgivable attacks on sovereign American territory. They have burned away any goodwill we might have. They’ve tossed aside the accepted rules of war, and therefore we’re warranted to do the same.”

“What are you suggesting, Tom?” the President asked.

“No one wants nuclear winter, sir,” the Defense Secretary said.

Anna’s chest tightened. She couldn’t believe she was hearing this.

“Our military is in full stage rout,” the Defense Secretary said. “The Chinese are racing toward Anchorage, the pivot point of the State.”

“Wait,” said Green. “If it’s troops we need, what about those in the North Slope oilfields?”

“They await the Chinese ice-mobile attack,” General Alan said.

“Have these ice-mobile formations attacked yet?” Green asked.

“Not yet,” General Alan admitted.

“Maybe that was all a bluff,” Green said, “used to draw away military strength from the critical area at the key time.”

“Explain that,” the President said.

“What are the Chinese ice-mobile units doing now?” Green asked.

“Unfortunately, we have no idea,” General Alan said. “The GPS drones are needed elsewhere.”

One of the military aides had explained about the GPS drones earlier. They were inexpensive, lightweight, high-endurance and high-altitude flyers that took the place of expensive satellites. Most American high-altitude GPS drones belonged to the Navy and they were being used on the Southern Front.

“Maybe the Chinese sent supplies north to Ambarchik Base in order to fool us,” Green said. “The Chinese mindset seems to prefer elaborate plans with hidden deceptions. Perhaps they believed we would discover their invasion plan before it occurred. This deception was meant for us to waste precious military resources in a place they never intended to attack.”

“Are you suggesting the Chinese are not headed for the North Slope oilfields?” the President asked.

“It’s a possibility,” said Green.

“We can’t know that,” said General Alan. “Maybe the polar taskforce hit blizzards along the way. Maybe it’s much harder crossing the icepack with several brigades-worth of men and vehicles than anyone could imagine. Maybe even as we speak the Chinese are getting ready to strike the North Slope.”

“Or maybe it’s time to take a risk,” Green said. “Tom says we’re about to lose Anchorage. Very well, use the troops protecting the oilfields to redeploy to Anchorage.”

“Redeploy how?” asked General Alan. “The Alaskan rail-line ends at Fairbanks. We would need to use precious air-transports to move them. We need those transports to air-ferry troops and supplies from the south. No. I can’t see how it will help us to lose both the oilfields and Anchorage.”

“What good are the oilfields if Anchorage falls?” Green asked. “Maybe it is time to deicide which point is most important and protect it with everything we have. The many mountains ranges and the vast distances between the oilfields and Anchorage means the ice-mobile formations could never help attack South Central Alaska. The cross-polar attack, if it is really coming, is only good for capturing the oilfields.”

Deep lines appeared on the President’s forehead. “That’s a cogent point, Colin. The Marine Commandant said something similar to me this morning.”

“Sir,” said General Alan, “I doubt there’s time for such a redeployment, not at the present rate of the Chinese advance to Anchorage. We have to stop them with what we already have in place.”

“That’s my point,” the Defense Secretary said. “We must stop them now.”

“You’re not suggesting tactical nuclear weapons?” the President asked.

“Tactical?” the Defense Secretary asked. “No. The short-ranged missiles would likely never make it to target. They’re too fragile, and despite their short-range, they’re in the air too long, giving the enemy a radar fix. Have you seen the lasers stabbing our aircraft?”

Anna thought about the video-shot showing that less than an hour ago.

“Those battlefield lasers are primarily for stopping tactical nuclear weapons,” the Defense Secretary said. “No. I’m talking about ICBMs, strategic nuclear weapons, targeted on the invasion fleet. Our ICBMs are big, armored and many have complex EW equipment onboard. They’d fall down straight from space and enough should get through the Chinese tactical laser defense.” The Defense Secretary made a sweeping motion. “We’d remove their fleet from the board and see what happens to their vaunted invasion force then.”

Anna’s mouth dried out. Talk of strategic nuclear weapons was sickening. Some of the people looked shocked like her. Others seemed to consider the Defense Secretary’s words.

“Some of our non-nuclear ASBMs got through before,” the Defense Secretary said. “If just a few nuclear warheads hit the fleet, our worries would vanish like that.” He snapped his fingers. “The Chinese couldn’t sustain the attack because their naval infantry already ashore would quickly run out of supplies, never mind their sudden lack of air support. We’d have won the war.”

“That’s an interesting point,” the President said.

The Secretary of State sipped his water and ran a thick hand through his strands of hair. Lines appeared in his forehead. Then he swiveled his head to gaze at Anna.

“Ms. Chen,” the Secretary of State said. “How do you think the Chairman would view such an attack?”

“Sir?” she whispered.

“Would the Chairman respond with a strategic nuclear attack on our heartland?” the Secretary of State asked, “Or would he accept our strike as one of the prices of battle?”

“It is hard to know,” Anna said carefully. Then she was aware of every eye focused on her. It was at that moment she truly realized that she had become the Chairman expert. It’s why she was here. “Yes...there is a possibility he would launch a strike at our heartland, as you say.”

“A possibility,” the Defense Secretary said. “It’s a gamble then, not a foregone conclusion. Sir,” he told the President, “I think this is a gamble worth taking.”

“Are the seven carriers bunched together?” the Secretary of State asked.

“As you know,” General Alan said, “we’ve used high-level flights and recon drones to try to pinpoint their position. The Chinese keep shooting those down and shifting their ships.” He looked up. “It’s almost as if they expect a nuclear attack.”

“Mr. President,” Anna said, “could I interject a point?”

“Please do, Ms. Chen.”

“I believe the Chairman would think along conventional Chinese lines concerning nuclear weapons. Ever since Chairman’s Mao’s time, they have believed—or they have stated—that China will win any nuclear exchange.”

“We’re all familiar with the statement,” the Defense Secretary said. “But that’s not the point here. We’re not talking about firing at China, but at her fleet, the one the Chairman used to stab us in the back. Do we let them grab Alaska, or do we use our nuclear missiles to stop them?”

“And risk ending the world,” the Secretary of State said.

“If you want to be melodramatic about it,” the Defense Secretary said. “But then why did we build the ICBMs if we’re not going to use them?”

“Mr. President,” Anna said, “I’m beginning to suspect the Chairman and his advisors would think much like the Defense Secretary. Great men in power follow similar lines of logic.”

The Defense Secretary became somber as he eyed Anna.

“Can you clarify that?” the President asked.

Anna nodded. “If we destroyed their fleet through a full-scale ICBM attack, I think they would strike our military bases with a retaliatory strike.”

“Those bases now all lie within America,” the Secretary of State said.

“But they’re invading our country!” shouted the Defense Secretary. “How could they dare to be upset at us for destroying their invasion force?”

“If I may interject one more point,” Anna said. “I think you should notice that they have refrained from using nuclear weapons. I believe that is critical.”

“They don’t need to use them,” the Defense Secretary said. “They’re winning.”

“No,” the President said, as he looked at Anna. “No nuclear weapons. The Chinese have not used them. We will not use them. I will not begin World War Three, the last war with a nuclear exchange. We must stop the Chinese, but we must figure out a way to do it with conventional arms.” He checked his watch. “We’ll take another short break. Then we will meet again and figure out some means to increase our odds of victory.”

SOUTHERN FRONT, ALASKA

The air wings from the seven Chinese carriers would have established air superiority over Alaska but for two key elements: defensive lasers and mass SAM sites providing safe havens for the American pilots.

First, there were the strategic ABM laser stations. The nearest was at Talkeetna in the Denali National Park, well north of Anchorage. It protected the city from direct Chinese air assaults. There were also two mobile laser batteries ringing Anchorage airport. They were small, tactical weapons as compared to the giant pulse-laser near Talkeetna. Wyvern Surface-to-Air Missiles together with radar-guided antiaircraft guns helped create safe pockets and air corridors lethal to any Chinese fighters and bombers. The combination gave American fighter pilots a sanctuary, a base from which to launch sudden raids on the enemy. Afterward, they darted back into safety.

This morning, C-in-C Sims of the Alaskan fronts practiced a bolder plan. The Army needed numbers and they needed more professionals at the Kenai Front now. Therefore, Sims was racing an advance company of a quick-deployment battalion of U.S. Army Rangers into Anchorage. It was a risk, as the company and some supplies rode on three Boeing 747s. They had left Oregon and gone deeply inland over the Yukon and presently flew for the metropolitan airport. Sims wondered what the Chinese were going to do about it. He was hoping nothing, but he doubted it. The Chinese pilots were good, their operators were better and their tech superior to anything America possessed.

The 747s neared the end of their journey: Anchorage airport. They flew alone and the sky was clear. High above Anchorage and out of visual sight were F-16s on combat patrol, ready for anything. An AWACS out of Fairbanks now warned Sims and his Air Chief of Chinese fighters approaching the city, although the Chinese were still fifty kilometers away.

“They’ve seen the Boeings,” Sims said.

“The enemy fighters are increasing speed,” the AWACS controller said. “It looks like they’re going to try to loop around the city. I think they want those Boeings, sir.”

Sims watched a screen in his command post bunker as he calculated odds. Should he order the 747s to break off and head for Fairbanks? The Army needed those Rangers at the front. He also needed all the air-transports he could cobble together. He couldn’t afford to lose any.

“Tell the 747s to hit the deck,” Sims said. “Tell them to race in and get near the airport’s lasers as fast as they can.”

The Air Chief relayed the order and sent the F-16s into action. They roared from their great height and out of the sanctuary of Anchorage, darting to intercept the Chinese.

More than two hundred kilometers away from the Chinese fighters, the lumbering transports banked hard.

The F-16 pilots were good, and they had the advantage of height. They traded it for speed. As more F-16s scrambled on the runways, the original fighters reached interception range and hunted for Chinese J-25 Mongooses, air superiority fighters.

Switching on their radars, the American pilots scanned the skies. Unfortunately, the Chinese jamming equipment was better than anything America had. The F-16 radar ranges were cut in half by the jamming. As yet, they were unable to track any targets.

The F-16s kept boring toward the enemy. Finally, their radar began to burn through enemy jamming. Then their threat receivers growled, telling them enemy radar was locked onto their aircraft. Almost immediately, Chinese air-to-air missiles arrived. An F-16 exploded. The others jinked hard, to the side, up, down—a six-inch wide missile roared past a fighter. Other missiles found their targets, hard kills as the destroyed F-16s rained metallic parts.

Three American pilots refused to let it go. They swerved back onto an intercept course. The radar locked onto individual Mongooses. American missiles launched, zooming in the direction of the oncoming Chinese. Then more Chinese air-to-air missiles arrived, and another F-16 exploded.

“Keep attacking!” the Air Chief radioed. “Engage them. Keep them from the transports.”

The last two pilots keep going, seeking visual range. They would use their cannons. They never made it as Chinese missiles killed one and damaged the other, forcing the pilot to turn for home. The Americans didn’t know it, but their air-to-air missiles had killed one of the Mongooses.

Using afterburners, the rest of the Chinese fighters now swung around Anchorage. They had a healthy respect for the laser batteries. The fighters swung to the south of Anchorage, thereby giving themselves more range from the Talkeetna pulse-laser than if they’d gone to the north.

Chinese radar burned through American jamming and presented them with three massive targets: 747s. From thirty-four kilometers away, the Chinese launched Black Thunder air-to-air missiles. They were radar-guided, a deadly piece of ordnance.

The big transports had been engaging their anti-radar jamming as well as ejecting chaff and EW decoys. It was a war of computer chips and software. Three Black Thunder missiles veered off course. One hit an EW decoy, creating an intense explosion in the sky. Two of the missiles zoomed at the lumbering transports. The first slammed into the giant aircraft and exploded spectacularly in a massive fireball, consuming jet fuel and incinerating the majority of the fighting men aboard. The survivors plummeted to Earth. No parachutes deployed from those inert figures. The second 747 was luckier at first. With smoke billowing from a joint of wing and body, the monstrous plane made an emergency landing on a highway. Tires skidded and smoke billowed from the rubber. It was looking good until the end. The wheels left the blacktop and hit gravel. The left wing went down, hitting the ground, scraping. Metal sparked and screeched. Seconds later, a fireball explosion killed every U.S. Army Ranger aboard.

The last 747 survived the air-to-air missile barrage, a tribute to chaff, EW decoys and luck. The pilot also attempted to jink, giving his passengers a wild and terrifying ride.

Two of the Chinese fighter-jocks became overeager, unsatisfied with their destruction and wanting more. Trusting in their jamming and superior electronics, they raced into Anchorage’s sanctuary zone. They wanted the last transport and therefore came within range of the airport’s defensive lasers. One of the Chinese fighters disintegrated in the air, parts simply dropping away. The remaining fighter veered away sharply. The pilot must have come to his senses as he fled for safety.

In the end, one 747 landed at the airport, disgorging the needed soldiers onto the tarmac.

It also started an argument between General Sims and his Air Chief. Should they rush the needed troops to Anchorage or land farther away at Fairbanks and put the soldiers on a train for the front? It was a matter of time, keeping air-transports intact and sheer desperation. Sims desperately needed to stem the Chinese advance, and for that he needed more and better-trained soldiers and always tons more munitions.

USS SAN JOSE

Captain Roger Clemens stood at the command module of his Los Angeles-class nuclear-powered fast attack submarine. They were also known as the 688 class. His hands gripped the module’s sides. He mustn’t let the crew know he was having doubts.

I’m going to die today.

Captain Clemens knew it because he was going to show the Chinese what happened when you challenged the United States of America on its home ground.

“The destroyer is turning north four degrees, sir,” the boat chief said.

Tightening his grip on the module, Captain Clemens watched the VR blips. The module was one of the newest improvements of this old submarine. He swallowed. They had spent the last ninety-seven minutes sneaking up on a carrier in the center of the defensive zone surrounding it, using a deep layer of cold water to do so. During these last few minutes, they had crawled out of the layer and into the warmer, upper water.

Captain Clemens was a small man. He had a narrow nose and close-set eyes. He now removed his captain’s cap and pulled a comb out of his back pocket. He ran the comb through his thick dark hair. His mother and later his wife—before the divorce—had continuously commented about it. Combing his luxuriously thick hair was a nervous habit of long standing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught one of the sonar men nudging his fellow. The other man looked up, and both craned around to glance at him.

“Do you have something to report?” asked Clemens.

The two sailors turned back to their sensors, their heads hunched as they peered intently at their monitors.

Clemens swallowed as he realized they thought his behavior odd. He put away the comb, put on his hat and tightened his grip on the module so his fingers began to ache.

I’m going to show the Chinese what it means to come stomping in our playground.

The chief, a big man with a red face, moved beside him. “Are you feeling well, Captain?” he whispered.

Clemens couldn’t answer that even though he wanted to present the calm image of a daring and tough-minded submarine captain. He’d watched every movie ever made about submarines and knew how a good captain was supposed to act. During his younger days, he’d read endlessly about underwater warfare. The last time there had been a really good naval war involving submarines had been between the Imperial Japanese Navy and the American Navy. Now there had been a group of submariners. No one had ever beaten the records of those American submarine captains. His favorite story in those days had been called, “The Skipper who Hated the Japanese.” In the story, Bridge Commander Sam Dealey had shown the Japanese that American subs could hunt destroyers. Clemens still knew the story by heart, and had always wanted to emulate Sam Dealey, a lean, quick-tempered Texan.

“What’s our way out?” the chief whispered.

With an effort of will, Captain Clemens tapped the module. “Right there,” he said. “We’re hitting it.”

“The carrier?” asked the chief, sounding shocked. “If we attack them now from where we are they’ll pinpoint us, sir.”

“I have an idea about that,” said Clemens. He wanted to destroy an enemy carrier. He wanted people to point at him and whisper to each other about his courage. Yes, they would say it took fantastic courage to slip in among hunting destroyers and helicopters and demolish a Chinese supercarrier. The Chinese had taken the place of the Imperial Japanese. Why was it always one of the Asiatic peoples trying to attack America? What was wrong with them anyway?

“What idea, sir?” the chief asked, looking at him closely.

Clemens tapped the image of the carrier again.

“Can you tell me your plan, sir?” asked the chief.

Clemens was hardly aware of the question. He was thinking about his early years in the service. He’d joined when America had been the predominant naval force in the world. It was inconceivable the Chinese could better them. If the Imperial Japanese hadn’t been able to do it, how did the nationalistic Chinese think they could?

We beat the Japanese. Heck, we destroyed their entire navy, just about sank every one of them. Now I’m going to destroy a Chinese carrier.

“Maybe we should rethink this, sir,” the chief whispered.

“Ready torpedo tubes two and three,” Clemens said.

The chief blinked at him. There was fear in his eyes.

“Four degrees starboard and up fifty feet,” Clemens said. “I want us in firing range.”

“You can’t go up there, sir,” the chief whispered. “They’ll pinpoint us for sure.”

Clemens pointed at the image on the module. “Do it, Chief, or face a court martial when we dock.”

The chief’s head swayed back as if he’d been slapped. His blunt features turned crimson. He gave the needed orders, and then he went across the bridge, standing far away from Captain Clemens.

That suits me just fine. The chief needs to do something about his body odor.

For the next fifteen minutes, Clemens gave clipped orders. The Chinese had all the advantages with their advanced tech and superior numbers. Well, he was going to change that. They’d taken out two American carriers with a dirty terrorist attack. He was going to hunt down the Chinese carriers and take them out one at a time. He was going to show the world what the American Silent Service was made of.

“There!” Clemens said, as he stared at the blips on his module. “Fire torpedoes two and three.”

Every gaze swiveled toward the chief.

“I’ve given my order,” said Clemens.

The chief nodded, and there was sweat on his crimson face.

The San Jose shivered as the two Mk48 ADCAP Mod 7 torpedoes left the submarine’s tubes. Each torpedo was nineteen feet long and carried a six hundred and fifty pound warhead.

“Down fifty feet,” Clemens said, “and turn us around. We’re leaving the same way we came in.”

Using their swashplate piston engines, the torpedoes sped through the murky waters as Clemens watched the timer on his module. He waited, and he stopped breathing. The torpedoes used Otto fuel II, a monopropellant. The fuel decomposed into hot gas when ignited, adding to the warhead’s power. As Clemens thought about that, a mighty explosion sounded. It was a clear and violent sound, and it was many times louder than it should have been. The accompanying pressure-wave made the San Jose groan in metallic protest.

“Depths charges!” one of the sonar-men shouted.

“They must be dropping them from a helicopter,” the chief said.

Clemens stared at the chief as the blood drained from his face. He hated helicopters. Unconsciously, he drew his comb.

“They’re dropping more!” the sonar-man shouted.

Clemens dropped his comb in surprise. As he bent to pick it up off the deckplates, the first depth charge exploded, and it ruptured the forward hull of the Los Angeles-class fast attack boat. The big submarine tilted and it shook worse than before as all around came more metallic groans.

“Emergency!” the chief shouted. He tripped as another depth charge exploded. The chief went down hard, hitting his head on a stanchion.

Before anyone could race to help the bleeding chief, before Captain Clemens could give a word of encouragement, a powerful explosion ruptured the hull. Freezing cold, dark water poured in at a frightening rate. It swept up crewmen and threw them against the bulkheads.

It was the end of the San Jose, the end of Captain Clemens and his crew. None of them would ever know that they hadn’t been hunting a carrier, but one of the Chinese fuel tankers. Its size had fooled Clemens and his crew into thinking it was a supercarrier. This tanker had been waiting to unload its precious cargo. The needed diesel now began spreading across the gray waters of the Gulf of Alaska.

ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul Kavanagh slid across the pack ice on his skis. It was bitterly cold so his bones ached. The howling wind blew against him, and it blew fine particles of snow across the eerie landscape. The flat terrain spread in all directions, an icy desert with an ocean underground.

There were different kinds of ridges and low formations. If a piece of ice slid over another, it was called rafted ice. The Algonquin had spoken to him some time ago about ice islands. Those came from glaciers, drifting in the summer and freezing into the pack ice later.

Paul didn’t care about any of it. He just skied. He moved into the freezing wind, determined to survive, to beat the Algonquin at the Indian’s own game. If he endured, he would see his son again. He had fantasies about making things right with Cheri. Those were the best thoughts. He’d escaped into his mind as he journeyed through the eternal darkness. Sometimes, the worst times, he would see Murphy again in his mind’s eye. He’d see the ex-Army Ranger peering at him through the cat’s window. It was those staring eyes, the ones that saw—

Paul shook his head. He didn’t want to see Murphy any more. He just needed to ski, to push the long runners over the ice, listening to their crunch and hiss.

The wind howled against him. It blew against his eyes and pierced the woolen fabric of his ski mask. It made his cheeks numb. His lips were cracked and bleeding. The shrieking wind hammered spikes into his brain, or it seemed to. He wanted a beer, warm beer, some Guinness. If he could sit in a bar by a fire and just sip beer for a month—that would be Paradise.

Instead, he was here, trying to reach Dead Horse, Alaska. Chinese had slaughtered the oilmen. Chinese Special Forces backpack-flyers had tried to add him to the list of the dead.

Paul shook his head again. He’d killed the killers. That was good. If he survived—Paul shook his head a third time, more stubbornly. When he survived, or at the end of this journey, he’d go to the oil company or maybe even to Blacksand headquarters and explain what he’d done. They might give him his back pay. Heck, they might reward him. Cheri and Mikey could use the reward money.

You’re not going to defeat me, Geronimo.

Thinking about the Algonquin, Paul looked up into the Arctic wind.

Ahead, John Red Cloud skied like an automaton, pulling the toboggan loaded with their supplies. The Algonquin didn’t have any quit in him. He’d put his head down into the wind and rhythmically poked the ice with the ends of his ski poles. The man refused to rest. He only stopped by his watch.

They huddled together then and climbed into sleeping bags. Red Cloud used the toboggan like a shield, laying it against him. When the watch’s alarm went off, the Algonquin refused to let him sleep in. Red Cloud climbed out of the bag, used a tiny sterno stove and heated coffee.

The hot coffee, it always felt good going down. It helped Paul climb out of his sleeping bag and ski another day toward Alaska.

Paul was tired now. The storm had howled in the morning—when he’d climbed out of the sleeping bag anyway. It still howled. The assault-gun-strap dug into his shoulder. The assault rifle was heavy, but there was no way he’d toss it. He had White Tigers to kill.

The more Paul thought about it, the less sense it made that Chinese Special Forces had attacked the platform. Was there an oil war going on that no one talked about?

He might have shrugged, but that would take too much energy. He was cold, tired and wanted to stop. One of his fears was that either the Algonquin or he would get sick. If he got sick, Paul knew the Algonquin would simply leave him behind as they’d left Murphy.

What if the Algonquin gets sick? Will I leave him behind?

Paul shivered. If the Indian died or sickened…Paul hated the idea of trekking across the ice by himself. Did Red Cloud feel the same way about him?

His thoughts clouded then. It took too much effort to think. He would survive. He would push himself no matter what happened. The hope of making things right with Cheri and seeing his son again, it was a spur. And he had a promise to Murphy.

Don’t think about him. Just don’t.

So Paul didn’t. He endured, and he followed John Red Cloud across the pack ice.

PRCN SUNG

Admiral Ling sat very still as he heard the news about the destroyed tanker.

“Did she unload first?” asked Ling.

“No, sir,” said Commodore Yen.

The two men were in the admiral’s ready room with its costly silk paintings on the walls. The room tilted back and forth as the big carrier rode out a storm. Even this deep in the ship, they heard the icy hail striking the monstrous warship.

“Do you hear that?” asked Ling. “The hail striking metal?”

The Commodore nodded.

Each of the aging men sat in a comfortable chair. The older sat behind an ornate teak desk. The younger and taller Commodore sat before it.

“Winter will come early to this region,” said Ling. “I’m beginning to think we’re cursed.”

Even though they were alone in the room, Commodore Yen glanced about nervously. Maybe with his VR monocle he saw more than others could. Maybe years of caution motivated him. “I ask that you be careful about what you say, sir. The walls have ears.”

Admiral Ling waved away the suggestion.

“I must hasten to add that the Chairman has declared us liberators,” said Yen. “We fight for the Eskimos and their freedom.”

“I’m too old for that nonsense,” Ling said, opening a drawer. He took out an old bottle of baijiu, clunking in onto his desk. After setting out two thick glasses, he poured a liberal splash into each. He handed one glass to Yen. The white liquor sloshed back and forth, as the room continued to tilt.

“The Vice-Admiral sulks,” Commodore Yen said, cradling his glass with both hands. “Your scolding a few days ago—”

“I didn’t scold him,” said Ling. “I berated the incompetent fool for losing the Seward depot. Now we’ve lost another of our fuel tankers to these cagey American submariners. We cannot lose more of these precious vessels or their cargos. Our fuel situation has become more than troublesome.”

“Please, sir, listen to me,” Yen said. “The Vice-Admiral has the Chairman’s ear. If he sulks, it means he is sending his uncle reports about you.”

Admiral Ling tossed the baijiu down his throat. It made the right half of his face twitch, which highlighted the left, dead half.

“The harder you berate the Vice-Admiral,” said Yen, “the harder the Chairman will likely come down on you for any…failures.”

For the first time, Ling looked shocked. “Do you think we will fail?”

“I think before we lost the latest tanker that our fuel situation was tight. Now it is much worse.”

“We have enough fuel for several weeks of combat,” said Ling. “That is long enough for us to reach and conquer Anchorage.”

“The Americans are fighting hard in Moose Pass. Maybe the others will learn to do likewise.”

“Do not expect anything from the Vice-Admiral’s men,” said Ling. “I know that I do not. It makes his blunders more tolerable.”

“Sir—”

Admiral Ling shook his head. Once he had Yen’s attention, he poured more baijiu for each of them. “I am unloading the Army vehicles.”

“The tanks?” asked Yen.

Admiral Ling nodded. “I will do more than unload them, but send them into battle.”

“The Army tanks guzzle fuel,”

Ling swirled the white liquor in his glass, regarding it. “We have a narrow window for victory. That is my belief. The Americans must know about our fuel shortage. Why otherwise destroy the storage facilities in Seward and trade their submarines for a tanker’s destruction?”

“Maybe it was luck on their part.”

“No,” said Ling. “I do not believe in luck of that kind. It was strategy. Unless the Chairman sends more tankers, fuel will be our bottleneck. We have enough for now, enough for several weeks of hard combat. Therefore, we will drive even harder at the Americans, even using the Army tanks to force breaches—given that the American defenses become firm. Soon, the Americans will surely bring greater reinforcements from their homeland. Maybe Canadian forces will add their weight to the enemy defense.”

“The Chairman has tricked or scared the Canadians into neutrality.”

Ling nodded. The Chairman’s brilliance in these matters never failed to impress him. Why couldn’t the Chairman’s nephew prove even slightly competent? The Vice-Admiral….

“My point is this, my old friend,” said Ling, trying not to think about the Vice-Admiral. “We will drive for Anchorage. I do not care about the causalities. We have more than enough men. I am not certain, however, that we will have enough time or enough fuel. Therefore, we will spare nothing now to pour through. If winter comes early here, it could strand us while the enemy gains reinforcements.”

Commodore Yen’s thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Then he spoke about the tanks, revealing his preoccupation. “I had thought you were going to save the Army tanks for the actual storming of Anchorage.”

“I can no longer afford that option. Since we failed to capture Seward’s storage depot, we must reach Anchorage before the real cold descends on us. Once we take the city, then the State will fall to us like a ripe pear.”

Commodore Yen sipped his baijiu. “I suspect your analysis is correct. You took Taiwan for Greater China. Now it is time to take Alaska. You will win.”

“I will win,” agreed Ling, “provided we continue our advance at the present speeds. I will keep a fire lit under the ground commanders. Whatever the price, we must reach Anchorage in two and no later than three weeks.”

The two clinked glasses, drank and listened to the hail battering the great ship.

The weather must hold. Ling shook his head. Whatever had possessed the Chairman to attempt this invasion now, this near winter? It was risky, and it was simply another reason why they needed to proceed with all speed.

COOPER LANDING, ALASKA

The National Guard armor company left Anchorage with Stan Higgins, their modified M1A2s riding piggyback on the Heavy Equipment Transporters. Unfortunately, they never made it to the main line of defense near Tustumena Lake, which had been shattered in a night of deadly combat. Two days of journey brought Stan and his tanks to the Number One Highway before Cooper Landing. The shattered remnants of the western front of the Kenai Command had reached a new defense line. Here, bedraggled airborne, National Guardsmen and Militiamen, many half-frozen and too many with black toes or frostbitten noses, found themselves willy-nilly formed into ad hoc formations.

Stan knew it was no way to run a defense. Already, however, he understood a hundred historical military incidents better because of what he’d gone through. War was chaos. The actual U.S. military term was friction, the physics kind that caused an object to slow down and stop. If you pushed a piano, say, friction made it nearly impossible to move unless it had wheels. If you attempted to move your company of tanks on HETS, friction made it hard to get anywhere. A hauling cable snapped, meaning wasted time as mechanics installed a new one. A tire blew. Time passed as men put on a spare. One of the haulers ran out of gas. They towed it to a gas station. They took the wrong route at Portage, where a massive traffic jam had halted Militiamen trying to get to the battlefield in their battered pickups and sedans. Friction grew the more soldiers and vehicles one attempted to move from A to B.

It was a good thing friction hurt the other side, too. Stan recalled a saying. Battle was easy, except that war made the easy difficult. An army that was fifteen percent effective wiped the floor with an army only seven percent effective.

The Chinese naval infantry were well-trained and had good morale, at least the ones coming up the Number One Highway did. The Chinese had the element of surprise, superior weapons and tech. They had better and more aircraft. The Alaskans knew the terrain better and they had lived with snow and ice all their lives. Most of the Militia and National Guardsmen had hunted or fished in the Kenai Peninsula at least once before.

If we don’t hold somewhere, we lose. We have to slow them down. It’s only one hundred and nine miles to Anchorage from here.

The Chinese had first landed at Homer. From there by road, it was two hundred and twenty-six miles to Anchorage. In this past week and a half, the Chinese had already traveled half the distance to the city. Historically, that was a tremendous daily advance.

The HETS unloaded the tanks and returned to Anchorage. Later, Stan and his tankers briefly contacted the enemy. The tanks waited in a flattened corral as Stan and his men used the latrines in some old buildings nearby. Bill came sprinting to them.

“Chinese infantry!” Bill shouted.

“Where?” asked Stan, alarmed.

Bill unrolled his computer-scroll. “Here,” he said, pointing.

Stan stared at the scroll, and he looked up. The Chinese were on the other side of that hill over there, the hill with the boulders that looked like three giants huddled together. “What are the Chinese doing out here?” he asked.

“There’re some Militiamen outside. They’re exhausted and only half of them have weapons. Their lieutenant said the Chinese have been chasing them for half a day. Stan, they’re terrified of the Chinese.”

“Okay,” said Stan. “We’d better rig a little surprise for them. I still don’t know how those Chinese made it around our lines.”

“There aren’t any lines out there,” said Bill. “According to the lieutenant, it’s a mess.”

“If you’re right, it means these Chinese are on their own. Maybe they got too aggressive. Here’s what we’re going to do….”

Twenty minutes later, using the old buildings for cover, Stan ambushed the Chinese. It turned out there was a platoon of them armed with QBZ-23s and wearing dinylon body-armor. They must have gotten lost and been separated from their battalion. This was simply more friction in action.

The Chinese looked tired, and they came in a bunch toward the buildings. They probably wanted nothing more than a good rest.

Stan ordered anti-personnel canisters. When the bulk of the Chinese platoon was halfway between the hill and the buildings, Stan gave the order.

Hank revved the engine and the tank lumbered out of hiding. So did the other M1A2s. Chinese soldiers hit the ground and began shooting. Jose fired the M256 smoothbore gun and the entire tank shook just as it always did on the firing range. However, this time it rocked Stan more than usual, and the sound of the canister put goosebumps on Stan’s arms. The canister contained hundreds of 9.5mm tungsten balls which spread from the tank’s muzzle like a shotgun blast. The tungsten balls were lethal for two thousand feet, and they mowed down the Chinese, puncturing the body-armor. It was murder as the other tanks opened up.

The lost platoon never had a chance. Then Bill and his Militiamen opened up. The Chinese twisting in the snow—it was an evil sight. Even so, Stan almost hyperventilated as he shouted.

After it was over, he told himself: So this is battle. He was glad they’d won, but he wondered if he’d always feel so dirty killing the enemy.

The company reached their destination several hours later. A regular Army major strengthened a perimeter several miles west of Cooper Landing. He was the highest-ranking officer in the area.

It seemed like a good place to make a stand. The slush-covered highway ran through the middle of their position. Huge granite slopes to the side of the road funneled attackers straight to them. It would have taken drills to drive foxholes into the stone, so the major had been satisfied putting artillery and mortar spotters behind boulder-strongpoints. It looked precarious on the side of the slopes, but Stan wasn’t going to argue with the man.

Snow-laden pines stood at the top of the slopes or hills. National Guardsmen were up there, stiffened by Regular Army from the 4th Airborne Brigade ‘Spartans’. Most wore body-armor. Everyone dug foxholes and firing-pits. They were supposed to protect the ATGM-teams.

ATGM, Anti-Tank Guided Missile, fired from portable launchers. These were old TOW2 launchers, which weighed one hundred and eighty-four pounds. Each missile weighed forty pounds, was shape-charged and better at longer ranges than short.

Behind the two granite slopes, Militiamen dug foxholes and trenches under the command of Reserve lieutenants and NCOs, Non-Commissioned Officers. Stan thought the position a good one, as the hills and pines helped protect them from attack choppers, unless the helicopters came straight at them. Two miles back were 155mm artillery tubes. There were some mortar-companies closer than that.

Undoubtedly, the major meant to halt the Chinese here and make them expend artillery shells and short-range missiles trying to dig out the Americans.

The major had made Stan’s tanks the core of his reaction team. As support, Stan had a National Guard platoon who fired Wyvern SAM launchers. SAM meant Surface to Air Missile. Bill Harris with his twenty Militiamen stayed with the tanks. Most of Bill’s Militia had rearmed themselves with QBZ-23s or they had been issued with grenade-launchers.

At the moment, Stan stood with the major near his data-net, a group of techs with fold-up tables, chairs and laptops. They fed information into the computers as more news kept trickling in.

“We need to ambush whatever heavies they’re going to throw at us,” Major Williams said. Williams wore a parka, with dirt smeared on his face. He had a hawkish nose and aggressively thrust his chin forward as if trying to maintain the image of a classic commanding officer. He studied a computer-scroll and gripped an assault rifle with his other hand. They stood under a pine tree that kept creaking as a cold wind blew between the two granite hills sixty feet ahead of them.

“Is this before or after they saturate us with artillery fire?” asked Stan.

Williams scowled. “I’m not a magician, son. I don’t know how they’ll react exactly. It’s what they’ve been doing, however. Whenever they hit a strongpoint, they rush up artillery and try to smash through. The raining artillery breaks our Militiamen every time and the National Guard troops about half the time. Seems to me the Chinese are eating up their supplies fast, however, supplies they’ll need to take Anchorage.”

“We’re not going to let them get to Anchorage, are we, sir?” asked Stan.

“Do you have any bright ideas on how to stop them?” Williams asked.

Stan looked around, studying the terrain, particularly how the road behind the trenches curved under a slope about a hundred yards to the rear. He’d been questioning soldiers and militiamen wherever he had the chance. This was such a historical opportunity. He’d been speaking into his recorder in the interests of writing battle memoirs someday. The men who had already faced the Chinese had told him some incredible tales, stories that had scared the crap out of him. By their accounts, the Chinese were ten feet tall and never made a mistake. He was glad for that run-in earlier today. Seeing the Chinese die had bolstered his confidence in these supposedly outdated tanks.

“Okay, up there,” said Stan, pointing at the slopes behind the defensive position.

“That’s too far behind the strongpoint,” Williams said.

“You’ve said it yourself, sir. You don’t think we’re going to hold this spot forever. We’re trying to bleed them and force them to use up precious supplies. I can understand that, sir. It’s good tactics. But how do we save our survivors once they break? They need covering protection in order to get away.”

“What kind of defeatist talk is that?” shouted Major Williams.

One of the data-net operators looked up. A scowl from Williams and the man quickly turned back to his computer.

“I’m only saying that because I’ve been listening to you, sir,” said Stan.

“Don’t blame me if you want to run.”

“Sir, as you said, the Chinese are mopping up places like this. They use artillery to make us run. Okay. We didn’t run this time, but instead made them bleed. It’s only logical that they’ll bring whatever heavy vehicles they’ve brought along with them for the second try. They might attempt an overrun assault to drive us from our position.”

“And how did you come to this glorious conclusion, Captain?”

“I’ve been talking to everyone I can, sir, learning about the enemy and his habits.”

“You’re an intelligence officer, are you?”

“No,” said Stan, “just a soldier.”

“You’re not even that. You’re just a National Guardsman.”

The oldest data-net operator muttered, “It was his National Guard tanks that killed a platoon of Chinese, sir.”

Major Williams glanced at the master sergeant and began nodding. “You’ve got a point, soldier. Sorry,” he told Stan. “I haven’t slept for two days. It wears on you. I’m sick of running, of trying to build a defense and then watching my men sprint away so I have to start running again myself.”

“We’ve been running, but we haven’t been overrun, sir,” the master sergeant said.

“Damn straight we haven’t been!” Williams said. With the back of his hand, he rubbed his forehead. “You’re right,” he told Stan. “We’re not going to be able to hold our position here forever. I like your point. Ambush them while they’re chasing us out of here, huh?”

“Seems like the best time to do it is when they think they’ve got our boys beat. Whatever heavies they have will likely come roaring up to kill us. They’ll think to do it easily. That’s when I send our shells into them. Boom—” Stan said, clapping his hands. “End of the Chinese heavies.”

“I like it. Not too fancy and it uses how we’ve been reacting—running like mad. This has to stop, Captain. We can’t let them into Anchorage.”

Stan thought about his dad sitting in jail, and about his wife at home. He thought about the Boones and the people of the Rock Church. What would the Chinese do to them once they reached Anchorage? “I agree with you, sir.”

“Okay then,” said Williams. “Let’s hurry it and get ourselves set up for round number nineteen.”

***

Speaking with the data-net master sergeant later, Stan learned some valuable information. According to what they knew, the Chinese hadn’t landed many heavy vehicles, or they hadn’t so far. Stan had also learned they weren’t facing the Chinese Army but the Chinese Naval Infantry, which was much like the Marine Corps in structure and design. The Chi-Nav as men had started calling them—it had been Chi-Com during the Korean War, which had meant Chinese Communists. In any case, the naval infantry were independent of the Chinese Army and lacked the heaviest tanks.

The master sergeant had looked up on the internet for Stan facts about the Chi-Nav. Their TO&E charts helped Stan breath easier. The naval infantry was lightly armed compared to the regular Chinese Army and compared to the U.S. Marines. Their heaviest combat vehicles were infantry fighting vehicles (IFV) and some light ‘Marauder’ tanks, at least light in Chinese advanced armament terms.

The sad truth was that the M1A2 Abrams was only barely a match for the Chinese Marauder. Even a relatively small vehicle like that had technologically superior armor and shells.

As Hank brought Stan’s tank into position, Jose Garcia arranged his shells in order. They had an automatic loader, an improvement compared to twenty years ago when a manual loader had shoved shells into the chamber.

“We’re ready,” said Hank, who had hung his cowboy hat to the side, where he kept an illegal .55 caliber hand-cannon.

Stan opened the commander’s hatch, popping his head and torso outside the tank’s protective armor. There was a heavy M2 .50 caliber machinegun here for his use, and two Blowdart tubes secured nearby for quick release. The Blowdart was one of the few modern pieces of American equipment, and with the larger Wyvern SAMs, it helped keep aircraft and choppers from simply mowing them down, at least when the Americans deployed the missiles properly.

Stan had read many times that a tank army’s effectiveness was in direct proportion to the number of tank commanders it lost during combat. In other words, to ‘see’ well, a tank needed its commander in this position, half in the tank to shout orders to his men, and half out so he could see what the heck what was going on around him. He would strap on body-armor later and a bulky helmet. It was some of the latest in American battle-wear. For torso protection, he had durasteel plates inserted in a compound fiber mesh, with armorplast plates and compound fibers on his head, hands and arms.

They were on the reverse side of a slope, meaning, the highway was presently hidden from sight. Snow-laden pines loomed all around the tanks. Stan had talked to Pastor Bill, and Bill had his Militiamen sawing off branches to help cover the tanks, to help camouflage them from air recon.

The massive vehicles were in a line, waiting for the command to clank near the top of the hill. They would roll forward then and depress the gun as far as it would go. Then the long barrel would poke over the top of the hill. Each tank would defilade in order to present the smallest target possible. As they fired from defilade or from a hull-down position, the enemy would see little more than the gun and part of the turret. Using the terrain to its advantage, a tank was an ideal defensive weapons system. Any enemy vehicles roaring through the pass would be perfect targets, especially after Stan sighted the guns.

Stan climbed out of his tank and crunched through the snow to the top of the hill. There he tried to imagine what it would look like if the Chinese came charging through the pass. After a time, he muttered, “No plan survives contact with the enemy.”

“What’s that, Captain?”

Jose Garcia ambled up to stand beside him. It was colder here under the pines. The short gunner with his green scarf wound around his nearly nonexistent neck was also their tech and their best mechanic. Keeping their tank running was a twenty-four hour maintenance chore.

“What do you think?” asked Stan, as he indicated the road below.

Jose squatted on his thick hams. He dug through the snow until he picked up a pine needle and sucked on it like a toothpick. Nodding, he stood up, dusting his hands together so snow fell.

Four hundred yards away and ninety degrees from them—the curve of the highway did that—was the American strongpoint. Soldiers waited in foxholes and built-up points. At the top of the higher slopes waited recoilless gunners, recently sent there to reinforce the ATGM-teams.

Stan perked up. He took out his binoculars. In the distance, he spotted a Marauder tank.

The newer Chinese vehicles were at least a generation ahead of what America possessed up here. Earlier, Stan had checked the specs on the Chinese light tanks. The Marauder in the distance was the size of a regular Ford sedan. It had advanced multi-flex Tai armor and a 130mm un-turreted cannon. That meant it only had one hundred and twenty degrees traverse. Combined with attack choppers, the Marauders were the extent of the Chi-Nav heavy vehicle power.

“We’re too few to hold long against a major attack,” said Jose, “but you already know that.”

Stan lowered his binoculars. “We’re trying to buy time for our side.”

Jose squinted one eye at him, as everyone who’d had a car or truck serviced in Jose’s shop would have recognize as his trademark ‘thinking’ look. “Do you believe we can win?”

“You mean this battle or the war?”

“Let’s start with the battle.”

“We’re sure going to find out,” said Stan, trying to pump enthusiasm into his voice.

Jose shook his head. “That’s not what I want to hear. When this is over, I want to go home to my wife and kids. Do you think we’ll still have wives and kids afterward?”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

Jose moved his ‘toothpick’ to the other side of his mouth. “You know, Professor, sometimes you’re too honest. How about you tell me something good.”

“We’re going to kick their butts.”

Jose nodded.

Stan took out a small computer-pad and brought up a video image of a Chinese IFV, showing it to Jose. Each had four 30mm auto-cannons and a Hung missile-tube for anti-air. The tracked vehicle carried six infantrymen inside, had half the armor of a Chinese main battle tank and moved fast with its powerful rotary engine. With that engine, the IFV had worked up and down the slopes that abounded in the peninsula. That had turned out to be a critical feature of the Chinese attack.

“We can use HEAT rounds on these,” said Stan.

HEAT meant High Explosive Anti-Tank. Those shells hit the enemy skin and exploded, driving a pencil-thin jet of metal into the target at over twenty times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, composite armor over time had proven superior to HEAT shells. A HEAT shell should destroy an IFV, but Stan had his doubts concerning the Marauders. Their HEAT shells would likely bounce off any Chinese main battle tank. For the Marauders and heavier tanks, Stan would use the Sabot rounds.

Jose squinted at the video IFV bouncing over the ground. “They’re fast,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Stan, slapping his chest, “but we’re the National Guard.”

Jose adjusted his scarf. His wife had knitted it for him long ago. He considered it his good luck charm. “We are that,” he said.

“We’re the Alaskan National Guard,” said Stan. “And we have Abrams tanks.”

“They’re the best tanks in the world.”

Stan knew that wasn’t true, but he said, “The very best. This spot, it’s perfect. It will buy our side days.”

“Perfect, huh?”

Sure, as long as White Tiger Commandos don’t flank us. As long as they don’t have something seriously heavy that they brought along with the fleet, and as long as their choppers don’t shred us to bits.

“Yes,” said Stan, “perfect.”

Jose cracked his knuckles. He still had black grease under his fingernails. He always did. “Good. As long as we can win, I’m good.” He frowned. “Look out over there,” he said, pointing far down the highway.

Stan swallowed nervously as he grabbed his binoculars. Those were tracked self-propelled guns, Chinese artillery. The data-net master sergeant had told him earlier they were 200mm and fired rocket-assisted shells. The show was about to begin.

-12-

Alaskan Nightmare

MUKDEN, P.R.C.

Han protested. “Please, I can do this without injections.”

“We have our orders, Captain.”

“No! Wait,” said Han. He sat in a pit, wearing twitch gloves and a VR helmet. He loathed the idea of anyone using drugs to alter his mind.

Since the King of Heaven missiles and the Chinese victory in Low Earth Orbit, the Nexus Center had many trained operators with little to do. A war directive from Minister Jian Shihong had released half the Space Service’s controllers to help on the Alaskan battlefield. There had been a four hundred percent increase in drones launched by the invasion fleet and an overload on the Navy’s limited number of remote controllers.

A tall tech now swabbed Han’s arm and jabbed a needle into his flesh, injecting him with S-15. It had an almost instantaneous and disorientating effect.

“No,” Han moaned. “Why?”

“You perform your task for the honor of China,” the tech said.

“I love China,” Han said reflexively.

“We know. Now relax. You’re about to switch to a Z4 Recon Drone.”

Han licked his lips. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this anymore, not if they were going to inject him with drugs. It was regular Navy procedure apparently, and the Space Service was complying with their regulations.

“Engage helmet…now,” said a tech.

“Oh,” said Han. Within his helmet appeared a snowy panorama of mountains, pines and marching men. The soldiers were below as if he were a watching eagle. He heard a flight operator from the fleet giving him instructions as a grid map appeared on his helmet’s visor.

“You must investigate grid D-8,” the flight operator said.

“Acknowledged,” said Han, as he twitched his gloves.

Soon, he approached the American position. It blocked the main highway with two guardian hills. Using zoom, he begin pinpointing larger pieces of equipment. Radar-guided artillery would take care of those. Then a warning beep alerted him of an enemy lock-on. A shock made him flinch, and Captain Han shouted in pain.

“You fool,” someone said. The disembodied voice sounded like the shorter technician. “You set the punishment shock too high. Quickly, lower the setting or you’ll render this controller unconscious, too.”

“What’s going on?” asked Han. The warning light flashed again, and another shock ran through him.

“Quickly,” the disembodied voice said. It sounded like the voice was talking to him, to Han. “You must engage your EW pods.”

Han twitched his gloves, remembering his instructions. In Alaska, a Wyvern missile streaked up at his drone. It was then Han saw enemy vehicles hiding under some pines. He twitched, and he launched a decoy. The Wyvern veered from the drone and destroyed the decoy emitter. The shockwave made his drone wobble, which made the view in his helmet wobble.

“Give us zoom!” someone shouted in Han’s ear.

New targeting radar locked-onto Han’s drone. More shocks zapped his body, making him twist in the remote-controlling pit.

“Disengage the shock mechanism!” a disembodied voice shouted. “It’s disorienting him.”

“…done for lock-ons,” said a different tech. “The kill setting is still active, however.”

“Give me a zoom on the American vehicles!” a flight operator shouted in Han’s ear. Vaguely, he recalled the voice belonged to a battlefield operator situated in a command cruiser in the Gulf of Alaska.

Han released more decoys, but a dark streak made it through and hit his Z4 Recon Drone. A second later, a massive punishment shock jolted through him.

It was Captain Han’s initiation into the latest remote-controlling modification. Controllers never reacted to battlefield danger as tankers or jetfighters did who actually rode in the vehicles they fought in. Many professionals felt this made controllers too light-hearted about their vehicle’s destruction. One group of theorists felt that giving remote controllers punishments shocks for lock-ons and greater shocks for vehicle destruction would heighten the controller’s effectiveness. Now he or she would vigorously attempt to remain ‘alive.’ No one had explained this to Han. The professionals felt it was better if the controllers learned this through experience. The painful surprise would help them remember later.

Captain Han groaned as his drone fell from the sky. The S-15 in his blood made the shocks many times more painful. He blacked-out and pitched from his controlling chair, taking him out of the battle in Alaska and out of consciousness in Mukden, China.

COOPER LANDING, ALASKA

Stan shivered inside his tank as it shook from nearby impacts. The enemy bombardment had been going on for some time already. He figured the enemy used missiles, not just heavy artillery shells.

“I’d hate to be outside,” said Jose from his gunner’s seat.

Stan didn’t know how anyone wanted to be a foot soldier, especially when you thought about artillery. A military study he’d read reported that the vast majority of battle-deaths occurred from artillery shells. During the Second World War, artillery had accounted for fifty-eight percent of the casualties. Body-armor helped some against shrapnel. Deep foxholes were better.

“Hey,” said Stan, “listen.”

The others in the Abrams became quiet.

There was a screaming noise from outside—a heavy shell. The sound made Stan shiver. Then a tremendous boom tightened his muscles as the tank shook and swayed back and forth on its shock absorbers. Shrapnel peppered the tank’s skin, sounding like baseball-sized hail.

“What was that?” said Jose, as he checked his screen. It took a lot to make a M1A2 tremble.

“They must have spotted us,” said Stan. “Quick, Hank, we need to move to a new location.”

Hank started the Abrams as Stan got on the radio, telling his other crews the news. It took ten gallons of JP8 jet fuel to start each tank. The M1A2’s gas turbine was a hog, but it was powerful and could drive the tank fast.

Soon, they clanked away in reverse as more enemy rounds slammed nearby. A direct hit would take out the tank. The heaviest armor was on the front, it was somewhat thinner on the sides. The rear had a tank’s lightest armor. Just like enemy Marauder tanks, they had composite armor. Theirs was Chobham RH Armor, with depleted uranium strike plates and Kevlar mesh.

In several minutes, the loud booms and shrapnel peppering stopped and the tank no longer shook from nearby impacts.

“Report,” said Stan to the other tankers.

“I can’t see anything without radar expect these shells falling on us,” a tank commander said.

Stan acknowledged that. The mountains and trees badly cut down visibility.

“Can you hear that?” asked Jose, who was down below Stan and to his right in the gunner’s seat.

It was roomier in the M1A2 than in just about any tank in existence. There used to be four crewmen when the Abrams first came out. In old German tanks like the Panther, there had been five men inside. Russian tanks used to be so cramped that tankers were only chosen from among shorter men. Stan and Jose had used the extra space in the Abrams to add shells. The usual ammo allotment was kept below in special chambers so the rounds wouldn’t cook off if they were hit. It was a risk storing extra shells in the main compartment, but Stan had decided to take the risk. He hadn’t been too sanguine about their chances for a quick re-supply of shells once the battle started.

Jose touched a hand to his headphones. He was listening to amplifiers outside the Abrams. He looked up over his shoulder at Stan.

“The Chinese are attacking,” said Jose. “With tanks,” he added.

“What kind of tanks?” Stan asked. “Is anyone reporting that?” There was a telephone attached by a cord outside the tank. It was there for the militiamen spotters to tell them what they saw.

Jose shrugged. “No one is saying, but I’m sure we’re going to find out soon enough.”

MUKDEN, P.R.C.

The technicians had forced a cocktail of stimulants down Captain Han’s throat. He was awake and back on his chair, with the VR helmet strapped on tight and his twitch gloves ready.

“What happened?” Han whispered. He felt disoriented. With his VR helmet’s visor, he saw the snowy ground and the looming slopes on the road ahead of him. American tracer-rounds already bounced off his armored skin. Behind him, he saw, with a backward-viewing camera, crouched naval infantrymen moving out of a wall of smoke. The soldiers wore dinylon body-armor and cradled heavy assault rifles, SPET-tubes and RPGs.

“You’re leading the attack,” a tech informed Han.

Han nodded as orders rattled in his earpiece. He was part of the Battle-Net attacking the American position, with the 160th and 322nd Naval Infantry Battalions and two companies of light drone tanks. The enemy seemed to be ready for them, as the Americans had held even after a fierce artillery pounding. It was the reason for the drone tanks, the first vehicle of the pack under Han’s remote control. These days, Chinese battle doctrine called for drone tanks leading overrun assaults. They were suicide-tanks, meant to absorb the worst enemy punishment.

“Please, no more shocks,” Han told the techs in the underground chamber with him.

“You will face a severe shock if your tank is destroyed,” a tech said near his ear. “But we have turned off the skin-strike shock-responder. Too many bullets are bouncing off your armor.”

“No!” shouted Han. “Why are you shocking me for dying, for my tank’s destruction? I’m on a suicide mission. It’s the reason our side is using drones.”

“Concentrate on your battlefield task,” a tech advised, “and do not quibble about drone doctrine.”

Han breathed heavily as he began to fear. He dreaded the idea of receiving another ‘death-shock.’ With a roar of anguish, he tore off his VR helmet and stood up in the pit. It was disorienting. The two techs at the boards swiveled around in their chairs, one on either side of him. Han’s head and shoulders were higher than the floor. The rest of his body was sunken in the pit.

“I’m finished with this,” said Han.

The shorter tech scowled. “If we must summon the enforcer, tell me now, as it will save time.”

“You mean the muscled lieutenant?” asked Han. The man had spoken to him earlier about obedience. Now the talk made sense.

“Exactly,” the tech said. “Now hurry please, inform us of your decision, as your stalled tank is causing confusion.”

Han swallowed hard, and he pleaded, “I can’t take more of those death-shocks.”

“Complaining is futile,” the taller tech said. “Simply get on with your task, and if you can, stay alive.” The tech turned to a com-board, before glancing a last time at Han and raising an eyebrow.

“Stay alive,” Han whispered. He nodded as he shoved the VR helmet onto his head. The Alaskan scene leaped back into view. The sounds of battle played in his earpiece, but not so loudly that he couldn’t hear the battle operator’s comments.

With his twitch-gloves, Han used his cameras to look around. Most of the other tank-drones were ahead of him now. Each tank was a Xing T-29 ‘Marauder,’ a light tank with an un-turreted 130mm smoothbore gun and two 12.7mm machineguns. A small AI inside the tank fired the weapons in real time. As any online gamer would know, the lag from China to Alaska would make precision firing impossible for Han. He supplied the drone’s ‘strategic’ guidance.

After moments of assessment, Han shouted, “My tank can’t fire its main gun at the ATGMs at the top of the hills!”

The American teams had just launched TOW2 missiles, taking out one of the Marauders. Now American recoilless rifles opened up from the top of the hill.

In the Mukden pit, Han twitched his gloves like mad. His remote-controlled tank reversed, slewed to the slide and roared ahead, racing to a burning Marauder. Shells landed around him as a TOW2 missile whooshed past. His AI fired a flechette beehive defender. It sprayed the air with eraser-sized tungsten balls. The beehive was supposed to take out swaths of infantry. Han had instructed the AI to use it to try to take out the TOW2 missiles.

“You must attack the enemy,” a battle operator said.

“Yes, yes,” panted Han.

He used his position behind the two burning Marauders. He clanked forward, fired, and dodged back behind the two wrecks for cover. Why wasn’t their artillery firing smoke shells? He needed covering smoke to help hide him until the last moment.

“You must charge the Americans,” said the battle operator. “You are a suicide vehicle.”

“I will survive,” whispered Han. He absolutely dreaded the death-shock.

For thirty seconds no one talked to him. Han remained behind the burning Marauders. In the pit, he twitched his gloves to keep the techs off his back, but he was only communicating with his Marauder’s AI.

“Captain Han!” a man roared in his ear. “You will advance on the Americans or face court-martial and a firing squad afterward.”

Licking his lips, Han moved his remote-controlled tank out of hiding. Chinese IFVs roared past his drone and raced for the slopes. Attack helicopters swarmed overhead, pouring chaingun-fire down on the Americans.

Heaving a deep sigh, Han revved his engine and roared after the IFVs. If he could stay close enough to them, maybe the enemy would target the infantry carriers instead of his Marauder.

The next few minutes proved to be a cauldron of vicious fighting. The Americans held their positions, dying even as they dealt death. Wyvern and Blowdart missiles, TOW2 anti-tank missiles, grenades, bullets and 155mm artillery shells destroying choppers, IFVs, Marauders and the naval infantry leaping out of the carriers. The naval infantry fought up the slopes and fired the handheld SPET-missiles at the strongpoints. It was the hardest fighting of the war so far.

The 160th Naval Battalion and the two companies of Marauder drone tanks took casualties as the 322nd Naval Infantry Battalion edged closer for their turn at the gap.

“You must break through!” the battlefield operator shouted at Han. “Smash into their rear area, find the command post and obliterate it.”

In the underground center in Mukden, in the controller’s pit, Han guided his drone on the Number One Highway as he moved between the hills. He raced through the gap, with several IFVs clanking behind him.

“Find the CP!” the battle operator said.

“Where?” shouted Han. “Where is it?” Then his AI spotted an American officer behind a boulder. The officer waved his arm, sending reinforcements up the American side of the hill to help their beleaguered brethren on top.

Han revved his engine as the AI fired its 130mm cannon and blew away the boulder. Unsure whether the drone had killed the officer or not, Han charged the area. His camera spotted movement on a rear slope about two hundred meters behind the last American trench. He used zoom, seeing a long barrel and the top of a turret. Quick analysis told him it was a tank, an American Abrams M1A2.

Han swore as he made his sedan-sized Marauder swerve. It upset the AI’s calculations. There was a muzzle flash from the long enemy smoothbore. Something fast zoomed toward Han.

Then Captain Han yelled as his Xing T-29 Marauder burst into flames from a direct hit. Han shouted louder as he received his death-shock. Then he slumped into unconsciousness. For him, the battle was over.

ARCTIC OCEAN

The wind howled around General Shin Nung, hero of the Siberian War. Nine years ago in 2023, his aggressive armored thrust had captured Yakutsk. He was the present commander of the Cross-Polar Taskforce, ready to win yet another campaign for the Chairman. He was on the Arctic Ocean pack ice, having traveled thousands of kilometers from Ambarchik Base in Eastern Siberia. His Chinese taskforce was headed for Dead Horse, Alaska.

The blasting noise of the blizzard had driven like nails into his head so his eyes continuously pulsed with pain. He wore a heavy parka, with a woolen ski mask protecting his face and with goggles over his tormented eyes. With his thick mittens, he grasped a towline. He pulled himself through the ‘whiteout.’ The wind continually shoved against him.

The polar blizzard had been howling for days, grounding everything. The blizzard whipped up the powdery snow on the pack ice. It was impossible to see the hundreds of parked vehicles around him.

Nung gripped the towline, dragging himself along. The powdery snow didn’t compress together as he walked over it. Instead, it slid out from under his feet, making this a treacherous endeavor.

He’d been making the rounds between hovertanks, snowtanks, caterpillar-haulers and infantry carriers. This was the advance group. Behind him for hundreds of kilometers, were combat engineers building airstrips and creating a polar road. So far, the taskforce had made it halfway from Ambarchik Base to their targeted destination.

Today or tonight—it was always dark—he’d discovered three infantry carrier crews dead from asphyxiation. They hadn’t followed procedures as they heated their stalled vehicles. Such a senseless loss made General Nung frown.

It’s Commissar Yongzheng and his killers. Why did High Command saddle me with East Lightning operatives and this muddled approach to polar warfare?

It was maddening. He knew how to achieve victory, but these rules of approach were binding him. It was the wrong way to grab the American oilfields. If High Command had listened to him, the battle for Alaska would already be over.

For Nung, the blizzard slackened as he reached the command caterpillar. Yongzheng was in there. Maybe after witnessing this blizzard, the commissar could understand the situation and see the truth.

Gripping metal, Nung twisted and opened the hatch. Heat poured around him and light bloomed into existence as three men swiveled around in the caterpillar. They wore heavy shirts, but no parkas. One showed anger but quickly changed into obedient acceptance of the opened door.

“Hello, General,” that man said, a lieutenant of the data-net.

The thinnest man in the caterpillar showed distaste as if he’d eaten a rotten egg. He was Commissar Yongzheng. He was thin and had long fingers like the violinist he was. He had delicate, sensitive features, almost like a girl.

Gripping his shirt collar and shivering, Yongzheng said, “Close the hatch, General. It’s freezing.”

General Nung scowled. The commissar’s mannerisms were effeminate. It angered him every time he realized that this violinist had veto power over every one of his command decisions.

The last of the three was the opposite of Yongzheng. The East Lightning killer seemed like some primate proto-human with crude features and coarse mannerisms. The henchman had eyes like oil, and they never turned away when Nung stared at him. The general found that enraging. Several times, he’d debated shooting the killer in the back and leaving him in the snow. Unfortunately, the brute never left Yongzheng’s side.

As he tore off his ski mask and hood, Nung slammed the hatch shut. It was stiflingly hot in here. There was communication equipment piled on both sides of the caterpillar. It was a drone remote-controlling caterpillar, one of several in the taskforce.

“I found another three crews dead,” Nung said. “This delay is killing us. We need to move, to make the crews work.”

“Move in this nightmare?” asked Yongzheng. “Are you joking, General?”

The commissar’s tone infuriated Nung just as much as the insulting question.

“You’ve heard the signals,” Nung said. “There’s heavy fighting near Anchorage. We need to attack the North Slope while the others hit the south coast. We can’t let the Americans use their interior position to shift troops as needed.”

“We are attacking,” said Yongzheng.

“No. We’re grounded in the middle of the Arctic Ocean.”

“Well, certainly we are at this moment,” said Yongzheng. “Once this horrible weather ends, we shall continue our advance.”

General Nung shook his head as he made a fist. “We need to gather all our supplies in the caterpillar-haulers, form a fast taskforce and thrust our way to the North Slope.” He made a boxing motion to illustrate his meaning.

“Please, I’m well acquainted with your theories. There is no need to demonstrate.”

“We’re losing time just sitting here,” Nung said.

Yongzheng shrugged.

Nung turned away and clenched his teeth.

“Please, your theatrics are amusing and help pass the time, but I’m sure they’re not good for your blood pressure. You must relax and save your zeal for the moment we meet the Americans.”

Nung whirled around as he dropped a hand onto his holster.

The bodyguard half rose from his chair. His dark eyes were fixed on Nung.

“No, no,” said Yongzheng, with a waving gesture. “Relax, Mingli. The General merely exhibits his frustration. I agree with him that this weather is most infuriating. When it subsides, I’m sure we’ll move quickly.”

“We cannot ‘move quickly’,” Nung said between his gritted teeth.

“Ah, yes, I keep forgetting,” said Yongzheng. “The weight of our vehicles demand low speeds as we travel over the pack ice. Too fast and the vehicle rocks the water under the ice, creating waves that could possibly destroy the ice. You see, General, I was well briefed before joining your expedition.”

“Let me unleash the hovertanks,” Nung said. “They can move with speed, without creating any wave-action. From here, it’s a short hop until they reach the North Slope.

Commissar Yongzheng examined his fingernails. “How many of the hovertanks have broken down already?”

“Fourteen,” Nung said.

“Incorrect,” said Yongzheng. “Please, General, I know you’re a stickler for facts. I would prefer if you used them while addressing me.”

Nung struggled to control his temper. He was the military man. This police creature knew little about combat and winning wars. It was said the hovertanks were finicky vehicles, prone to breakdowns. That’s why they needed the best crews with an onboard mechanic added to each vehicle.

“I’m waiting for your answer,” said Yongzheng.

“Thirty-seven,” Nung finally said, “but we’ve fixed many of them.”

“Your techs patched up the hovertanks?”

“They’re mechanics,” muttered Nung, “not techs.”

“Ah, yes, your precision makes itself known once more. Thank you for the correction.”

“Fourteen, thirty-seven,” Nung said, “the number doesn’t matter. We need speed to dash to the North Slope.”

“But that’s simply absurd,” said Yongzheng. “If thirty-seven hovertanks have broken down so far, how many will break down before you reach Alaska? Given the geometric proportion of the number of breakdowns the farther we travel, I would estimate an eighty percent loss of your machines by the time they reach the enemy coast. You cannot take the oilfields with a mere twenty percent of your hovertanks.”

“Firstly,” Nung said with heat, “I can. Secondly, only fifty percent would break down.”

“What is your reasoning?”

“Speed and surprise is a force multiplier. Only a handful of units are needed then. Once I’ve captured the oilfields, you can use the heavy air-transports to land garrison forces.”

Yongzheng shook his head.

“But—”

Yongzheng lifted a long-fingered hand. “I have my orders and you have yours. This blizzard changes nothing. High Command wishes for a methodical advance across the ice. If you dash for the oilfields, American bombers will demolish your pitiful force. You need fighters to cover you and snowtanks to provide muscle for the battle.”

General Shin Nung crashed into an empty chair. He hated this weather, the useless deaths and the East Lighting commissar with veto power. It would be a risk dashing over the ice with hovertanks. If this blizzard had hit a hovertank taskforce…he might have lost everything. They would need an open window of good weather, but only a short one if every hovertank moved at maximum speed. This slow, methodical advance, it meant they spent far too much time on the ice. If he were the American commander, he knew of ten different ways to stall them out here and possibly destroy them. The ice was an enemy. It wasn’t simply another form of road. Every minute they remained on the pack ice, the potential for disaster increased. He could give China the greatest possibility for victory, but they had saddled him with small thinkers.

Why am I always surrounded by the ordinary when extraordinary commanders are required?

He’d broken through and dashed to Yakutat during the Siberian War. He’d ended the conflict by dealing with problems directly and twisting the elements to suit him. Maybe it was time to do that here. It entailed risk, not only a military risk but also a political one.

Marshal Kao had given him Commissar Yongzheng to spite him. Maybe it was time to gamble everything—life and career—on one bold throw of the dice. The Chairman would reward a victor. If he failed in this assault by their methods, Kao and his clique of mandarins would sacrifice him anyway. They would use any excuse to squash what they could only envy.

Nung touched his holster. By adding a little more pressure to his fingers, he could unsnap the flap. The desire to draw his gun and shoot was nearly overpowering.

“Turn up the heat,” Yongzheng told his bodyguard.

The man grunted as he got up and went to the temperature control.

“I have more vehicles to inspect,” Nung said.

“Away with you then,” said Yongzheng, gesturing with his hand.

Nung rose and lurched for the door.

“Oh,” said Yongzheng, as if it was an afterthought. “I forgot to tell you. There was a radio message concerning, hmm, our situation.”

“We’re supposed to keep radio silence once we’re this far across the pack ice,” Nung said.

“Yes, yes, but this message was different.”

Nung waited for Yongzheng to tell him.

“I’m afraid I’ve detected that explosive mind of yours plotting for something grand,” said Yongzheng.

General Nung frowned.

“Because of that, I asked my superiors to take your wife and children into protective custody.”

“What?” shouted Nung.

Yongzheng shrugged. “It sullies our working relationship, I’m sure. But it might also clarify the situation. General Nung, you are an active general, well-suited to battle. That is a wonderful trait for a fighting commander. But it makes one in my position nervous. I have thwarted your desires a few too many times. This blizzard and the eternal darkness, it is maddening, and might induce one to madness. Therefore, I would formally like to let you know that my sudden demise will result in your wife’s untimely death. It is an awful thing to say, and I’m sorry to say it. But there it is—a new working relationship between us.”

“You…you monster,” breathed Nung.

“I accept your epitaph for my horrid action, as it’s well-deserved. But please, let us keep that between ourselves for now and spare the troops such descriptive words. Save the name for your memoirs.”

Nung leaned against the hatch. His wife and children—his desire for victory oozed away. He shook his head.

“This cannot be,” he said.

“It leaves a bad aftertaste, I agree,” said Yongzheng, and his eyes were bright as they latched onto Nung.

The general noticed. Many considered him brash and arrogant, but he was also perceptive. The monster enjoys this. He enjoys my grief. He likes to break a person’s spirit even as he pretends he doesn’t.

“I understand,” Nung managed to say. “I will do my utmost to insure your survival.”

Commissar Yongzheng frowned, and he cocked his head. “You must also achieve victory for the homeland.”

“That is my honor, Commissar.”

The frown deepened. Then Yongzheng flicked his hand. “Go on then, check your vehicles. Make sure we survive this dreadful weather.”

General Nung opened the hatch and staggered into the freezing, brain-blasting blizzard. His wife and children—maybe everyone in the High Command and in the government were monsters. He gripped the towline and dragged himself away. Once this was over, he’d gain his revenge.

Nung shook his head. He couldn’t even think those thoughts for now. He would have to bide his time and wait for his chance. If it came, he would strike at his tormenters then—and crush them thoroughly as one would a poisonous spider. Until then, he would wait, seeking his one chance. Before that occurred, however, he’d have to keep his taskforce alive in this bitterly alien environment.

COOPER LANDING, ALASKA

Stan stood beside wounded Major Williams. The commanding officer was stretched out on two fold-up tables of the data-net. There were dead soldiers littered nearby, here behind the two guarding slopes. One of the dead included the master sergeant of the communications net.

There had been a lull in the fighting for the granite hills guarding this small section of the Number One Highway. Already, American reinforcements had been rushed forward along the highway. They climbed the hills to take the place of the dead and dying. Each new soldier carried a heavy pack stuffed with ammo.

On the two fold-up tables, a bloody bandage covered half the major’s face. A standing medic used his fingers to probe Williams’ black-and-blue torso.

Major Williams winced. “Careful, man,” he whispered.

“You have broken ribs, sir,” the medic informed him.

“Inject me with painkillers,” Williams said.

“Sir, I need to send you back to a medical unit.”

Clenching his teeth, Williams strained and grasped the medic with his good hand. “You listen to me, soldier. The Chinese are coming back. I need to be on my feet by then.”

“You’ll be dead if I inject you with—”

“I don’t have time to argue with you,” Williams whispered. “Look around. There are lots of dead soldiers. Why? Because they held their positions. Because they threw back the Chinese. We stopped them cold and that’s buying us time for reinforcements to arrive from the mainland states.” Major Williams gave the medic a nasty leer. “We’re all dead-men here. It’s just that a few of us don’t know it yet. Now inject me with painkillers so these men can see I haven’t deserted them.”

Turning pale, the medic snatched a vial from the medkit on his belt. Using his index finger, he flicked the vial and inserted a needle into the yellow drug.

Williams watched the procedure. Now he lay back with a groan and he turned his head so he could see Stan with his good eye.

“How many of your Abrams are left?” Williams wheezed.

“All of them,” said Stan.

“Don’t worry. That will change.”

“Sir?” asked Stan.

“The Chinese have to break through,” the major said. He scowled fiercely as the medic stabbed him with a needle. “Get back to your tanks. I don’t know what the Chinese have—”

“Sir!” the last data-net operator shouted, as he leaped up from his fold-up chair. “The Chinese destroyed our 155s with low-level bombers.”

“We weren’t going to keep our artillery forever,” Williams said. “The Chi-Navs are better than us at counter-battery fire.” His eyebrows thundered. “Okay, we’re down to the mortar-teams, but at least we have a new infusion of blood with—what are those men?”

“Sir?” asked the data-net operator. “Oh, I see what you’re asking.” He glanced at the soldiers climbing the hills. “They’re National Guardsmen, sir.”

“Good boys, the National Guardsmen,” Williams said, looking at Stan. “Listen, Captain, you keep your tanks in reserve on those slopes behind the trenches. The Chinese have a surprise and it ought to be coming soon.”

“What have you heard?” asked Stan, who failed to hide his worry.

Williams grabbed the edge of one of the fold-up tables and pulled himself to a sitting position. “One of our fighter jocks saw it,” Williams said. “It was huge, he said, before the Chi-Navs knocked the jet-jock out of the air. He told us the monster had three turrets.”

Stan felt faint. “One of the Chinese multi-turreted tanks, sir?”

“Can your Abrams knock it out?”

“If it’s the T-66, it has two hundred millimeters of Tai composite armor in front. That’s near the limit of what our sabot rounds can penetrate, if they hit perfectly.”

Stan knew the key to the coming fight were the APFSDS rounds: Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding Sabot. After being shot out of the 120mm smoothbore gun, the skin of the sabot round dropped away during flight. That gave greater velocity to the remaining spent uranium ‘bullet.’ To increase penetrating power, the bullet was actually a long, thin rod. Unfortunately, long thin rods tended to tumble in flight instead of going straight. It was the reason for the fins, to stabilize the spend uranium rod. That hardened rod slammed against the enemy at hyper-velocity, boring through the armor. Whatever made it into the enemy compartment was usually enough to kill the crew or cook off any shells lying around, and those killed the crew. The Abrams only had ten such sabot shells in each of the ten tanks.

“You’ll have to hit the T-66s in the sides then,” the major said.

“If we try to maneuver around them here, that will expose us, sir, which isn’t a good idea. What the enemy can see, he can kill.”

“You have tanks!”

“The T-66 is more than one hundred tons, sir. It—”

“I don’t give a rip about its specs, Captain. I just want it dead. Use your little tank trick to smash it and however many friends it brings along.”

“How many tri-turreted tanks did the pilot see?” Stan asked, trying to keep his composure.

Major Williams slid off the two tables, swaying as sweat trickled down his face. “We have to hold this place, Captain. We have to buy our side time. Do you understand?”

“Maybe we should pull back,” said Stan. “We’ve made them bleed here. That’s how the Israelis soundly defeated the Syrians back in 1973. During the Yom Kippur War, the Israeli tankers retreated from one hill to another, blowing away the charging Syrian tanks. Now we need to—”

Williams staggered to Stan, grabbing one of his arms. The major blew his foul breath into Stan’s face. “We can’t run forever, soldier. Sometimes you have to stand and die to win. Have you ever heard of the Alamo?”

“I’m a history teacher, sir.”

“This is our Alamo. Here’s where we make the Chinese bleed. If they want our country, they’re going to have to buy it over our dead bodies.”

Stan shook his head. “Old General Patton said the way to win a war was to make the enemy S.O.B. die for his country.”

Williams shoved Stan. “Go. I don’t think we have much time. And soldier?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck, son, you’re going to need it.”

***

The second assault on their position was worse than the first. The Chinese had time to prepare and they poured material on the exposed areas. Rocket-assisted artillery shells screamed down, sweeping the hilltops and slopes. Low-level bombers swept through the Wyvern and Blowdart barrage to release napalm. As the napalm fires crackled, Marauder light-tank drones appeared out of billowing clouds of smoke laid down by the Chinese artillery.

Enough Americans were alive, however. They had crouched deep in their foxholes. Now a few popped up and painted the drones with laser-targeters. Seconds later, tank-killing mortar rounds rained on the drones.

The Chinese were ready for that. With radar and patrolling drone recon flyers, they pinpointed the mortar-teams’ positions and fired huge tubes from mobile guns. 200mm anti-personnel rounds whooshed over the guarding hills, plunging on the hidden mortar-teams. One-by-one the teams fell silent. Then IFVs roared out of the smoke and charged the short distance to the slopes. They clanked past burning drones and reached the edge of the granite hills. Bay doors opened on each IFV and Chinese dinylon-armored infantry poured out. They clawed and climbed the steep granite mountainside.

The last Americans on the hilltops rose up, hurling grenades, firing recoilless rockets and spraying the enemy with assault-rifle fire. They fought with bitter tenacity, and their position was a strong one, their pitted body-armor giving these soldiers another few minutes of life. At last, as the Chinese crawled near the top, the Americans couldn’t fire directly on the enemy. Each side lobbed grenades at the other.

Then attack choppers roared in. Like a mechanical insect, they hung over the Americans and ripped with massed 25mm chainguns. As the chainguns fell silent, grim-faced Chinese infantry crawled the final distance to the top of the hills. They’d taken the twin positions, but at a bitter cost.

Now the Chinese battlefield commander unleashed his secret weapon. Three big T-66 multi-turreted tanks moved on the Number One Highway. No doubt, the Chinese commander meant to finish the fight fast and reduce his losses. Maybe he was a mind reader, maybe he’d gotten an inkling of the American commander’s thinking. Either way, he was right. Major Williams was about to play his last card of this Kenai Peninsula Alamo.

***

Inside the Abrams, Stan used his sleeve to wipe his sweaty face. It was cold out there but hot in here in the tank.

“They’re coming,” said Jose, who crouched over his gun’s controls.

T-66 multi-turreted tank, it was a World War One dream that had finally come to life: a land battleship. Stan had read up on it before, a U.S. Army paper on possible Chinese design specs. It had three turrets, each with a 175mm smoothbore gun. It fired hyper-velocity, rocket-assisted shells. It was over one hundred tons, making it nearly twice as heavy as an Abrams. Six 30mm auto-cannons and twenty beehive flechette defenders made it sudden death for any infantryman out in the open. Linked with the defense radar, the T-66 could knock down or deflect enemy shells. The main gun tubes could fire Red Arrow anti-air rounds, making it a deadly proposition for attack-craft trying to take it out. It had a magnetically balanced hydraulic-suspension, meaning the gunners could fire with deadly accuracy while moving at top speed.

Stan opened the hatch, climbed out and jumped to the snowy ground. He crawled to the slope, carefully peering over. The sight froze him.

Three monster tanks moved fast along the highway. He knew why. Extendable inner wheels allowed it. If needed, the wheels could retract into the tank like an aircraft’s wheels. Then the armored treads would churn.

Cursing softly, Stan dug out his binoculars. He focused on the massive lead tank. Could any of his Abrams knock it out? Probably only at close range. How many of these had the Chinese brought with them to Alaska?

Sweat trickled into his eyes. He wasn’t going to survive this battle. He knew that now. Down below, Stan could see Williams shouting and gesturing at the men waiting in foxholes and in the trench. Dirt covered the snow around each hole and each trench. The enemy must know the major and his men were there despite the amount of Wyvern and Blowdart missiles they’d fired at the various recon flyers.

At a distance, IFVs followed the three T-66 tanks.

Just then, Pastor Bill Harris, sergeant of the twenty Militiamen assigned to the Abrams, plopped down beside Stan. Bill’s men remained on the slopes up here with the tanks and well behind the major’s trenches and foxholes. Although he was a pastor, Bill Harris was a tough man, a bulldog of a basketball player.

“Can you stop those things?” asked Bill. For the first time in Stan’s life, he heard fear in Bill’s voice.

“Remember the Alamo,” Stan told him.

Bill nodded slowly, with his eyes on the Chinese monsters.

Stan used to read about the Alamo with a grand sense of adventure. As a boy, he’d always wanted to be there with the great American heroes. They had faced the Mexican Army and died almost to a man.

Just like today, only this time the Chinese are killing us.

Stan didn’t want to die. He wanted to get up and run away into the woods. If he did that, all those men who had died up on the hills and who would soon die in the forward trenches….

“Susan,” he whispered, speaking his wife’s name. He wanted someday to hug his wife and kiss her again. “I can’t let the Chinese reach Anchorage. We have to stop them here.”

“Do you mind if I pray?” asked Bill.

“What? Oh. Knock yourself out.”

“Help us, Jesus,” said Bill. “Let all of us be brave today, amen.”

Stan realized he needed to get inside his tank. He gripped Bill’s shoulder. “Thanks, Pastor. See you…see you up there after this is over.”

“You destroy those tanks,” said Bill. “You destroy them and keep your Abrams intact. I don’t know of anything else that can stop such things.”

“Good luck,” said Stan.

“God bless you, brother.”

Stan nodded. Then he slid backward out of sight of the approaching tanks and shoved up to his hands and knees. It took an effort of will. Then he was up. He stood there. With a curse, he ran for the Abrams, knowing that today he was going to die.

As he climbed onto the tank’s hull, Stan shouted at the open hatch to Jose and Hank, “They’re coming! It’s time to rock and roll.”

Four minutes later, Stan was cold. He was wedged in the hatch, half his body outside and half his body in the tank. He wore durasteel body-armor and an extra-armored tank commander’s helmet. To steady himself, he gripped his .50 caliber machinegun.

The ten M1A2s were in hull-down position behind the slope. That slope was behind and above the major’s foxholes and trenches. From the trenches, desperate Americans fired ATGMs, LAWS rockets, recoilless guns and assault rifles. Everything bounced off the big T-66s. In retaliation, the Chinese monsters murdered exposed soldiers with mass beehive flechette blasts, while the 30mm auto-cannons chugged endlessly.

Stan froze momentarily as the first T-66 reached the trench line. The one hundred-plus ton tank spun on its treads. Blood spurted from the crushed trench. In fear, Americans crawled out of foxholes and the remaining trenches and sprinted like mice. Beehive flechettes blasted from the vehicle’s sides, causing a bloody mist to spray. When the vapors cleared, there were no bodies. Metallic raining sounded as the T-66s peppered each other, but that did nothing to halt the massacre. There was no retreat as such, as Major Williams had planned. There was simply annihilation.

Stan could hardly speak. There was no moisture in his mouth. He clicked his receiver anyway and said in a husky voice, “Everyone concentrate your fire on the lead tank, over.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jose.

The nearest enemy tank was five hundred feet away. The Abram’s 120mm gun roared and a sabot round sped at the enemy.

Stan watched wide-eyed. The round hit, burning itself partway into the Tai armor, but not making it all the way through. Three enemy turrets began to traverse around, bringing the big guns toward his partly hidden tanks.

“Jose!” shouted Stan.

Several of the Abrams began to fire from hull down. Each sabot round either burned partway into the enemy armor to no effect or bounced off the incredibly thick Tai composite hull.

From one T-66, three enemy cannons roared. The shells were loud, blurs in the air. Two American tanks exploded. The third shell missed, blowing up a geyser of dirt. Metal from the destroyed tanks hissed past Stan.

“Turtle!” he roared into his receiver. Like a submariner, he dropped through the hatch and clanged it shut behind him.

The tank shook as Jose fired another shell.

Stan pressed his eyes against his scope. Jose’s shell punched through turret-armor and the enemy turret froze in place. Black smoke poured out of a small shell-hole in the turret. They’d done it! They’d hurt a T-66. It was possible. That T-66 still traversed its other two guns. The 175mm cannons recoiled again as each sent a round at two different Abrams tanks.

With a sick groan, Stan used his scope to inspect his company. Henry Smith’s Abrams—the turret and gun-tube spun in the air like a Frisbee. It landed fifty feet away. Stan swiveled his scope in the other direction. The next Abrams was burning. One T-66 had taken out four Abrams tanks in less than a minute. How were they supposed to defeat such an enemy?

“Focus on the turrets!” Stan yelled into his receiver. “Don’t try to penetrate the central mass. Just knock three turrets out and they’ll be effectively disabled.”

More Abrams fired sabot rounds.

Stan stared through his scope. Oily smoke billowed from another enemy turret in the tank already hit. A hatch opened and a Chinese tanker began climbing out. A fiery blast hurled the Chinese tanker into the air. The shells in that turret must have started cooking off.

The T-66’s single remaining cannon fired. It sent a 175mm shell through the dirt, destroying yet another Abrams hiding behind the slope, bringing its total to five kills.

That made Stan sick. “Listen!” he shouted. “Fire at the enemy turrets! Aim at the turrets and we might win this battle!”

Then Stan saw a running man. It was Pastor Bill. He ran down the slope as if he was driving to the hoop for a winning basket.

“What are you doing?” whispered Stan.

The pastor heaved a sticky round. Wired to it was a cluster of grenades. The pastor dove into a foxhole and the sticky round stuck to the T-66’s tracks. The cluster exploded, knocking off a tread and halting the deadly tank. An anti-personnel machinegun opened up, sending rounds in the pastor’s direction.

At that moment, the remaining Abrams fired, and the sabot rounds bored into the crippled T-66’s single operational turret. The great Chinese tank shuddered.

“Retreat!” shouted Stan. “It’s time to leave.” Another T-66 tank was headed in their direction. The third continued to slaughter Americans in their foxholes.

Stan’s company needed no more urging. Five Abrams tanks backed up fast, racing for the next slope and so they could get to the road. Four other Abrams remained where they were, burning. The fifth Abrams was among them, but it didn’t burn.

“Go, go, go,” Stan said. He was shaking. Was Bill still alive? What had that crazy-man been thinking? Stan opened the hatch and popped his head outside into the cold air.

The second tri-turreted tank clanked over the top of the slope as it gave chase. One of its guns roared, and another Abrams exploded, leaving the company with four tanks.

Stan cursed feebly and then shouted down the hatch, “Jose!”

“I see it,” said Jose, who adjusted the Abrams’s gun.

The tri-turreted monster traversed two cannons at them as it clanked past burning Abrams tanks, those that never had a chance to leave the slope.

“It has us,” said Stan. He felt sick inside as the giant cannons aimed at his tank. There was no way his armor could stop the 175mm shells. This was murder.

The monster T-66 passed burning Abrams tanks littered behind the slope. One of those five M1A2s wasn’t burning, however, although it had been disabled. Now, as the giant Chinese tank clanked past it, the fifth Abrams’ turret adjusted slightly. Someone in the disabled tank was still alive! Before the T-66 could alter its path, the 120mm cannon fired at point blank range. The sabot round drilled into the mighty Chinese tank. The T-66 stopped, and it exploded, with turrets popping off.

“A miracle,” whispered Stan. “That was a miracle.”

“What now?” asked Hank.

Stan couldn’t speak, for the hatch to the fifth Abrams opened. Flames licked up as a man tried to climb out. Then he blew upward as the insides of his tank cooked off.

“Did you see that?” Stan whispered.

“I saw,” said Jose.

“He saved our lives,” said Stan.

“He let us get away.”

Stan felt numb inside. That was heroism. Bill charging the T-66s alone and the Abrams gunner just now—Stan made a fist. He struck the turret. “Let’s get out of here before the last T-66 shows up.”

He’d seen what those things could do. One T-66 was more than a match for five Abrams tanks.

“We had ten Abrams and now we have four,” Stan said. “They slaughtered us.”

“It isn’t over yet,” said Jose. “You’d better get us out of here,” Jose told Hank.

“Roger that,” said Stan. “It’s time to run away so we can live to fight another day.”

-13-

War in the Ice

ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul Kavanagh was tired, cold and sore. The sound of his skis was a constant noise, interspaced with a moaning wind that bit into his bones. Despite everything, he stared up at the polar darkness in awe. An eerie display of colors lit the heavens. It was the Northern Lights or the more scientific name of Aurora Borealis. Red and green patterns of light seemingly formed motionless waves of beauty before the stars.

Red Cloud glanced back at him, his features hidden under a ski mask. Maybe he noticed Paul’s fixation, for the Algonquin looked up. Resting on his ski poles, Red Cloud waited for Paul to catch up with him. Then the Algonquin began to cross-country ski beside Paul.

“Sunspots make the lights,” Red Cloud said.

“How?” asked Paul, who hadn’t spoken for days.

Red Cloud glanced at him again. The Algonquin had spoken to him several times a ski-period, even though Paul had never acknowledged him or his words. It was almost as if Red Cloud had been worried about his state of mind. Now Paul wondered if the Indian had felt lonely, if this Arctic desert adversely affected the Algonquin as it did him.

Did he fear I would give up and he’d be trapped alone in this icy wasteland?

“Protons and electrons are shot from the Sun in massive bursts during a Sun Storm,” Red Cloud said. “The protons and electrons strike the Earth’s atmosphere, and the planet’s magnetic field drives them to the poles. There they act like the charged particles in a fluorescent tube.”

“What kind of Indian are you?” asked Paul. He’d been expecting some ancient Algonquin myth, the way TV Indians always answered nature-related questions.

Red Cloud pointed at the heavenly display. “Green is the most common color. It is caused by atomic oxygen. Red is caused by molecular oxygen and nitrogen.”

“Were you a scientist?” asked Paul.

“…no. I love science fiction. Asimov taught me it was fine to desire to know the reason behind a thing, but Jack Vance has always been my favorite SF author.”

“Never heard of either one of them,” Paul said.

They fell silent then as they continued the endless trek across the pack ice. It was a monotonous journey and tedious to the mind. There was a flat expense of white in every direction as far as the eye could see.

“That’s interesting,” Paul said, who continued to stare at the Northern Lights.

Red Cloud grunted. He still pulled the toboggan, the supplies having dwindled since leaving Murphy in the stalled snowcat.

“Why does that little red light move like that?” asked Paul.

“Northern Lights do not visibly move.”

“That one sure does.”

Red Cloud looked up again. He stopped. Paul stopped beside him. They both watched the blinking, moving red light.

Suddenly, the Algonquin hissed, “Get down, and remain still.” He threw himself flat on the ice.

Paul did likewise as he slipped the assault rifle from his shoulder. He watched the blinking dot move along the Aurora Borealis.

“Look,” Paul said. “There’s another light farther behind the first.”

The two men glanced at each other. Then both craned their necks, studying the phenomenon. The second blinking light came toward them, following the light ahead of them.

“I see a third one even farther behind,” Red Cloud said.

“Yeah,” Paul said.

“They must be airplanes.”

“Or helicopters.”

“Listen,” Red Cloud said.

Paul listened, and he heard it, a faraway drone.

“These aircraft do not fly at the same height as the intercontinental planes,” whispered Red Cloud. “Maybe they fly low to escape high-flight detection.”

“They’re passing us—who knows how many miles to our left.” Paul studied the three locations. “They’re headed south which means they’re coming in from the north. Do you think this has anything to do with the destruction of Platform P-53?”

“Yes,” Red Cloud said.

“Yeah,” Paul said, nodding. “Why blow an oilrig? There has to be a good reason, a purpose.” He recalled Murphy watching him from the cat’s window. The mind-image brought a painful knot to his sternum. “Where are those aircraft going, do you think?”

“We will never know.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” Paul said with heat.

“Why are you angry?”

“You’re the one who wants to know how things work. You read science fiction. You’re supposed to be curious, right?”

“We must save our thoughts for survival,” Red Cloud said. “The Aurora Borealis and those points of light, they are good because they’ve brought you out of the gloom that filled your mind. Now we must conserve our strength—”

“Why did you tell me to hit the ice just now?” asked Paul.

“The unknown instills fear. I was afraid.”

“Wrong answer, Chief.”

Red Cloud grew still. “I do not care for you calling me that.”

Paul’s nostrils flared. Then he nodded as he thought about it. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. You and me are in this together. With Chinese Commandos blowing up our jobs we don’t need to bring up bad blood between ourselves.” Paul watched the blinking lights. “Do you think those are more Chinese?”

“The Chinese blew up the rig and tried to kill us. Now something odd occurs on the ice again, meaning the likeliest explanation is the Chinese doing something strange.”

“Are there anymore oilrigs or science posts around here?” Paul asked.

“Not along this route, no.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. He felt alive again. With the feeling came a desire to strike back, not to just take it all the time. The desire hardened, and he said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to follow those blinking lights.”

“You are using your emotions, not your mind. To do as you suggest will decreases our chances of survival.”

Paul jumped to his feet, using the assault rifle to point at the blinking lights. “My gut says those are choppers. First, what are choppers doing out here? Second, how far can choppers fly? They don’t fly as far on one tank of gas as a cargo plane.” Paul shook his head. “We’re never going to make it to Dead Horse. But if there’s a camp on the ice somewhere close by—”

“If there is a camp,” Red Cloud said, “it could be thirty, fifty or even seventy miles away from here.”

“Seventy miles is still closer than over two hundred miles away,” Paul said. He hesitated. “This is it, Red Cloud.” It was the first time he’d used the Algonquin’s last name. “Are we splitting up, or do we stick together and find out what’s going on?”

Red Cloud watched the blinking lights. “You are an American. I am an outcast without a country, maybe even the last of the free Algonquins. Let us die on the warpath as warriors, the two of us, former enemies facing impossible odds.” A hard smile stretched the woolen fabric of his ski mask. “This one time, you shall know what it feels like being an Indian.”

“Sure,” Paul said. “Let’s go.”

BEIJING, P.R.C.

Jian Shihong felt fear as he rode an elevator deep underground beneath Mao Square. The Chairman had summoned him to his personal bunker. Few entered it and fewer still left alive. According to Police Minister Xiaodan, who compiled such statistics, not even Deng Fong had ever been summoned down here.

Beside Jian in the elevator were two silent guards in black uniforms. They wore red armbands with the Chairman’s personal symbol in the center, the head of a lion with an imposing yellow mane. The guards towered over Jian. The occasional glances in his direction weren’t overtly hostile, but these two seemed contemptuous of him.

The two guards made Jian feel small and weak. His strength would prove futile against these two. If he were to oust the Chairman from power, he likely needed to figure out a way past the Lion Guard, as the security teams were named.

The elevator stopped, the door opened and one of the guards pushed Jian into a utilitarian steel corridor. He stumbled ahead of the two specimens of Chinese perfection.

The corridor was long, with iron-grilled lights glaring down on them. Knowing they were underground, under tons of earth, magnified Jian’s fear. He felt claustrophobic and soon he was short of breath.

“We’re almost there,” the nearer guard said.

Jian wanted to tell the man he wasn’t tired, but claustrophobic.

“Halt!” said a guard.

Jian stopped before a steel-reinforced door. It slid up, revealing a large room.

“In,” said the guard, shoving Jian into the room.

Behind Jian, before he could protest, the steel door slammed shut. It made Jian jump. A moment later, he heard a chuckle. He whirled around, taking in the room and the situation.

It was oval, with hundreds of posters on the walls. Each was a propaganda picture of the Chairman during various stages of his life. Some related to the Siberian War, others to the reunification of Taiwan. There were posters concerning hard work, more on worker safety, on exercise and on dietary habits. Each showed the Chairman exhorting or lauding others for some good behavior.

Jian saw that he’d reached the final antechamber where the badly ailing Chairman lay in the flesh. The Chairman was propped up in a large mobile medical unit. It was like a huge American recliner, with a joystick-control. The old man seemed small in it, with several medical tubes sticking into his side. He seemed mortally diseased and weak, the opposite of the security guards. Only the eyes seemed powerful, two pinpoints of energy seemingly burning-out the nearly useless husk of flesh.

“Welcome, Jian Shihong,” the Chairman said. Somewhere on the chair, a microphone must have picked up the words. It amplified them, making the Chairman’s withered voice painfully loud as it bounced off the steel walls.

Jian silently congratulated himself on keeping his features neutral. It was said the Chairman took odd or fearful facial expressions in the worst light possible, usually as a sign of guilt.

“I’ve brought you down to my quarters so we can speak freely,” the Chairman said.

“It is an honor,” Jian said.

“There are many spies in the outer world.”

“Yes,” Jian said.

“And not just CIA spies, but Chinese spies, the creatures of those who yearn to oust me.”

A sick thrill of fear coursed through Jian. Was the Chairman toying with him before the old man ordered his arrest? The Chairman kidnapped his worst enemies and sent them to experimental stations, where indentured scientists practiced hideous tortures.

“Do you wonder why I wish to speak freely with you?” the Chairman asked, with his eyes bright.

“I thought it would be concerning the war.”

“The war against hunger?”

Jian wondered if he could sprint across the room and throttle the Chairman before he was cut down. Hidden marksmen watched behind the walls. If he made a threatening motion, bullets would riddle his body. Or worse, they would sink knockout darts into him.

“I am at your service,” Jian said.

The Chairman’s chair swiveled as crooked fingers pressed controls. Part of the wall slid up to reveal a screen. “I have read statistics,” the Chairman said. “Our internal unrest is subsiding as the people watch news-shows and blogs about the war.”

“Your strategy was brilliant, sir.”

“Yes,” said the Chairman, “it was brilliant. But this is a waiting period only, as far as the people are concerned. We must quickly defeat the Americans.”

“We are winning the war,” Jian said.

“We are advancing in the Kenai Peninsula. But we are not necessarily winning.”

“I bow to your superior insights, sir.”

“As well you should. Didn’t my insights allow the military to conquer Siberia?”

“Most certainly, sir.”

“Was it not me who returned Taiwan to the mainland?”

“You have guided our nation through its hardest times.”

“You are an uncommonly perceptive, Shihong. It is one of the reasons I’ve given you political control of the invasion.”

“The honor you’ve heaped on me—” Jian shook his head. “I will do everything in my power to make sure the invasion succeeds.”

“I’m pleased to hear you say that, very pleased.”

“I will not fail you, sir.”

“Tell me,” the Chairman said. “How does the cross-polar attack proceed?”

Before Jian could answer, an outline of the Alaskan North Slope coast appeared on the screen. Dead Horse was shown, as it was on the doorstep of the Prudhoe Bay oilfields. The pack ice stretched away from the coast. On the western portion of the pack ice was a dotted line, which ended at the west edge of the screen.

“You see before you the line of advance of our Cross-Polar Taskforce,” the Chairman said.

“It would seem that the general-in-charge has been tardy in his advance,” Jian said.

“Which is why,” said the Chairman, with a strange glitter in his eyes, “it was wise of me to allow Army High Command to give General Nung a special East Lightning Commissar.”

Jian didn’t understand what the Chairman was trying to imply. He therefore spoke carefully. “I’ve read General Nung’s biography. The man is considered an attack specialist.”

“Nung was an attack specialist.”

Jian bowed his head. “May I ask you to clarify something for me?”

“You may.”

“Why did Army High Command ask for an East Lightning Commissar to watch Nung? I though the Army and the Political Police were at odds with each other.”

“You know so little, Jian. You are like a child among predatory wolves. It is your youth, I believe. It is also one of the reasons I have seen fit to give you a second chance at life.”

“Sir?” whispered Jian, the ability to keep his composure dwindling because of the direction of the conversation.

“How does one maintain power?”

“I would not presume to instruct the premier master on the subject.”

“That shows you have a modicum of wisdom. One of the key ingredients is to set your underlings at war with one another. Always give them overlapping areas of authority. That ensures they will squabble with each other, and in time, they will run to the highest authority to act as a judge on a particular dispute. It means the politically grasping underlings will spend their time and energy fighting each other instead of trying to topple the one in charge.”

“I see,” Jian said, and he did. It made him think of Deng Fong and him. The thought chilled Jian. He has used me. He has pitted me against Deng.

“The members of Army High Command hate General Nung,” the Chairman said. “He is an outsider and Russian-trained in lightning warfare. The Russians have never forgotten the bitter lessons taught to them by the World War Two Germans.”

“Ah,” Jian said.

“Yet all that is beside the point. The cross-polar attack has stalled. I desire for you to travel to General Nung and put a fire under him.”

“Sir?”

“Nung must strike the North Slope oilfields now. He must do it as my naval soldiers drive into Anchorage. War is only partly about fighting. It is more about morale, about perceptions. If the Americans see every front crashing around them, they will be more willing to sue for peace. We need their grain, and we need it now. Therefore, I desire that we accelerate the pace of our attacks. It was my desire to try to coordinate these two events to bring about American hopelessness and to encourage their peace demonstrators to bring an end to what they will come to call ‘a senseless war’.”

“That is a brilliant plan and analysis, sir. My single concern is—”

“Is about your safety,” the Chairman said. “Yes, I know.”

Frightened, Jian bowed his head. “I would never disagree with you, sir. But my greatest concern is for China.”

“What is your point?”

“Uh…uh,” Jian said. “What is the fastest way to General Nung?”

“Very good,” the Chairman said. “I thought you were about to ask why I should send you instead of, say, Marshal Kao.”

“I’m completely convinced that you have your reasons, sir, and that few of us could understand the brilliance of those reasons.”

“Hmm, that is overly perceptive of you. Therefore, I will try to explain. My military commanders are like golf clubs. I used to be quite good at golf, you know.”

“Your exploits on the greens are legendary, sir.”

“Like golf clubs, one general is excellent for putts. Another is like a driving iron. General Nung is like a sand wedge, a fast attacker, one who yearns to lunge. I have waited in order to pick the correct time to use General Nung to make his lunge. I am a military genius, particularly when it comes to timing.”

“The entire world knows of your brilliance, sir.”

“No! The entire world believes that I fought a weak rump state named Siberia. I have read the books about the campaign. Many say that if Russia had the will to fight, they would have demolished the Chinese, meaning my brilliant concepts.”

“The Europeans who wrote such drivel are small men, sir. Their obvious envy of you and your greatness disgusts me.”

“I grant you they are small-minded,” said the Chairman. “But many still listen to them. My point is this: I have carefully selected my generals, often letting rivalries blunt their particular specialties. I do that for carefully thought out reasons. I cannot send Marshal Kao across the ice to do as I desire, because the marshal hates General Nung. Kao will continue to spite the hard-charger. You, on the other hand, will surprise everyone. Because I am old, they will believe I am making a mistake sending you. Do you realize that many see you as a failure, as a bright Party member who cannot carry heavy loads?”

Jian nodded. He did not like the direction the conversation was going.

“You will unleash General Nung. You will urge him to attack the North Slope now. We must demoralize the Americans by twin hammer-blows and end the war quickly. As the great Sun Tzu has said: If the campaign is protracted, the resources of the state will not be equal to the strain. Already, I have sent mass shipments of munitions to the invasion fleet. Tank rounds, anti-air missiles, laser fuel, their needs seem endless.”

“May I ask another question, sir?”

“If you can stand more truth concerning yourself,” the Chairman said.

“Why not send a radio signal, urging Nung to this action? Is there a reason why I should travel across the ice?”

“Indeed, Jian Shihong. So you may see what your handiwork has wrought. If you are to become the next Chairman of China, I desire that you have some inkling of what war brings.”

“Sir?” whispered Jian.

“Yes,” the Chairman said. “I have decided to groom you to take my place. You shall need a military exploit, however, to cement your position among the contenders. That is why I send you to General Nung. Once we are victorious there, people will say it was your genius that did it. I send you across the ice to give you a great victory to your credit.”

“No one can take your place, sir,” Jian said, dropping to his knees and bowing his head.

“…you are much wiser than I had suspected. Hmm, get up. Go, and hurry to the airport. Your supersonic jet leaves for Ambarchik Base in the hour. From there, you will fly to General Nung.”

Jian bowed again, and he would have lauded the Chairman with more praise. But the old man’s chair sped toward another opening that appeared in the wall. The Chairman left the room. As the opening closed, the first steel door opened, revealing the two waiting security guards.

Jian decided this was the wrong moment for reflection. He strode toward the two, wondering if he’d been wrong about the Chairman. Maybe instead of playing the old creature, the withered conqueror had been playing him. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and one that would require deep thought. First, however, he needed to survive this journey onto the polar ice.

ARCTIC OCEAN

After twelve hours of skiing, with a two-hour nap sandwiched between, Paul was exhausted. As they’d traveled, they’d seen more blinking red lights. Three times, they had hit the ice and lain motionless. One time, Red Cloud claimed to hear a chopper’s whomp. Paul had closed his eyes to help him concentrate, but all he’d heard was the steady moan of the arctic wind. Now it was different. Now they heard a plane revving its engines.

“There,” Paul said, panting.

They both hit the ice again. The revving grew louder, but still they saw nothing in the dark Arctic night. After several minutes of this, Paul leaned onto his side, halfway opening his parka.

They had to be careful as they traveled. They had to make sure they didn’t sweat too much. If they did sweat, they had to air themselves out so the moisture didn’t freeze on their bodies and chill them. Paul had learned this winter rule in northern Quebec. It was even truer out here.

Now in the darkness they saw the outline of a cargo plane as it lifted over a pressure ridge and climbed into the polar night. The engines roared, and the plane passed to their right. In time, the sound and plane dwindled, allowing them to hear the hidden camp.

They climbed to their feet and skied to the pressure ridge. It was about twenty feet tall. Paul unhooked his boots from the bindings and laid his skis at the bottom of the ridge. He waited for Red Cloud then the two of them climbed the icy chunks. Soon, Paul eased to the top, peering over.

“Are you seeing this?” Paul whispered.

“Hovertanks, caterpillars, planes and supplies—what is going on?” asked Red Cloud.

Paul unlimbered his assault rifle, propping it on the ice. He put his eye to the lens and began to study the night camp. There were lights strung up and headlamps from various vehicles. He also spied large piles of crates, big tents, a hovercraft park—ah. He noticed a long runway with blinking yellow lights on either side. Small bulldozers pushed snow and ice around it, making ice-walls.

“How did the Chinese get here?” Paul asked.

Like Paul, Red Cloud used the scope of his assault rifle to study the dark camp. “My guess is some of them drove across the ice from Siberia. The others were flown in.”

Paul swore softly, and he began to nod. “Maybe it makes sense then their taking out our oilrig. Their line of advance must have taken them near the platform. They killed everyone there because they didn’t want anyone to know what they’re doing.”

“How could they hide this from American and Canadian radar?” asked Red Cloud, “to say nothing about the airlines.”

“Are you kidding? What airlines?”

“Most international flights from Europe to America use the north polar route. It’s shorter going over the top than around. But even that is beside the point. Recon satellites could pinpoint these vehicles through infrared signature. And there are early warning radar stations in Alaska and Canada. Could the Chinese have attacked those stations to blind the North Americans?”

“What if the international flights have stopped?” asked Paul.

“That still leaves the recon satellites.”

“What if the Chinese knocked down the satellites?” Paul asked. “I’ve read about that. Each country’s ABM lasers routinely destroy spy satellites flying over their heartlands. Why not knock them all down? And the radar stations—maybe the Chinese are using highly advanced EW.”

“Electronic warfare?” asked Red Cloud.

“Since taking Taiwan, invading the two Koreas and allying with Japan,” Paul said, “Chinese EW has leaped way ahead of American battlefield tech.”

“Radar is different,” Red Cloud said.

“Remember the stealth fighters we used to deploy?”

Red Cloud grunted.

“Maybe the planes we’ve seen do something like those stealth fighters.”

“I suppose it is possible,” Red Cloud said. “But why would China attack America?”

“Don’t know.”

“I do not either. I can’t believe such an attack is likely.”

Paul laughed grimly. “I wouldn’t have thought it likely until White Tiger Commandos killed everyone at Platform P-53. Something has hit the fan. That’s for sure. Now here’s a Chinese base…what, two hundred miles from the Alaskan coast?”

“The White Tigers destroyed an oilrig,” Red Cloud said thoughtfully, “and oil is the only international commodity northern Alaska possesses. Maybe this is a gathering force meant to destroy the Alaskan oilfields.”

“Yeah. That would be my guess, too. The Chinese want to cripple the American economy. I wonder why they want to do that, however.”

“It is always about power,” Red Cloud said, “which means money, which means one man stealing from another.”

“That’s a pretty grim view, Chief. Sorry. Delete the last word. I meant to say ‘Red Cloud’.”

Red Cloud looked solemnly at Paul. “We survived the slaughter at Platform P-53. We are brothers of the warpath.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you seen enough?”

“Meaning what?”

“We must hurry to Dead Horse and warn the Americans.”

Paul chewed his lower lip. He was thinking about his promise to Murphy. “I don’t know. Two hundred miles on skis will take us at least ten more days. In ten days, all the Alaskan oilfields might be burning. We have to do something before that.”

“Two men cannot attack the base.”

“Actually,” Paul said. “Two men can easily attack the base. It’s doing anything useful that’s doubtful.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That we get a radio out of there,” Paul said. “If Dead Horse is two hundred miles away, we could contact them.”

“No one in Dead Horse would believe us.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when the time comes,” Paul said. “For now, I want a radio.”

“And how do we get this radio? Do we ski in and ask them?”

“No. We crawl there and steal one.”

“Do you truly think this is possible?”

Paul recalled some of the things he’d done in Quebec. “Yeah, I sure do. Are you game?”

Red Cloud turned away and stared up at the Aurora Borealis. Soon, he nodded. “After what they did at the oilrig, I want to make the Chinese pay.”

“That’s the spirit,” Paul said, who had half-hoped Red Cloud would try to talk him out of this. He wanted to keep his promise to Murphy, but he also wanted to make it home to Mikey and Cheri. Could he do both? Well, he sure as heck was going to find out.

***

After studying the enemy camp for over an hour, Paul Kavanagh and Red Cloud crawled across the pack ice like seals. They’d left the toboggan behind, left the backpacks, skis and assault rifles. Each had a knife. Red Cloud had a long Algonquin blade, a crude-looking thing that was similar to a Bowie Knife. Paul had a Gerber combat knife, a nasty thing with high-grade steel and mat-black paint.

Paul had explained it like this: “If we have to use our assault rifles, we’re dead men.”

“That is true,” Red Cloud said. “But if we are dead men, let us take some of them down to death with us.”

“Forget that. If you want to act like a ninja you have to arm like one.”

“We have our grenades: two fragmentation and one phosphorus grenade.”

“I’ll take the phosphorous grenade,” Paul said. “You concentrate on your knife. Sneak into the camp, kill only as a last resort and sneak back out with our radio. We’ll let the air force do the killing.”

“What air force?”

“If it comes to that,” Paul said, “the American Air Force.”

The two of them slowly crawled across the ice. Both knew that motion, particularly any kind of fast motion, caught the attention of the human eye.

The polar camp had crate piles, big tents and bulldozer-made ice-walls. Between some of the ice-walls were huge tubular bladders containing something liquid.

“I suspect diesel fuel,” had been Red Cloud’s guess.

There were also smoothed lanes leading to the crate piles, to the tents and to other places. After an hour of study, Paul concluded the tents held supplies. This looked like a supply dump.

“It seems foolish,” Paul said, “but I think they’re storing ammo and fuel close together.”

“Maybe they’re not worried about an attack.”

“That’s why I said it was foolish. You should always worry about that.”

In the darkness, Paul and Red Cloud counted eight hovertanks, six small bulldozers and four Thunder-10 transport planes waiting to be offloaded. There were also two big supply helicopters. Red Cloud estimated about sixty Chinese, maybe twelve of them stacking supplies. The most interesting thing had been a laser caterpillar coming off a transport. From another plane had come a towed 30mm flak-gun. The two large devices were anti-air defense weapons, meaning that maybe the Chinese did expect eventual attacks. If that was true, it was even crazier to store fuel and ammo in the same supply dump.

As Paul crawled across the ice, he kept his gaze un-focused. Most people could sense a person staring at them. Paul wanted to be aware of where the nearest Chinese were, but he didn’t want to stare at a man and make him feel uncomfortable.

“As you crawl into their camp, you have to go somewhere else in your mind,” Paul had explained to Red Cloud.

During the slow crawl, an unloaded cargo plane used the airstrip. It revved its engines, roared down the runway and banked north, heading up into the night sky.

Just what did it mean that the Chinese were building a supply dump this close to Alaska? Just how big of a raid were they planning against the oilfields—given that was the Chinese desire? How did the attackers plan to make their escape? It was dangerous being on the ice. It was even more dangerous using heavy military vehicles and fighting on the ice.

As he crawled, Paul shook his head. Don’t worry about that now. Just find your radio and crawl away.

Paul neared one of the tents. It was big enough for a man to walk into and it was made of some kind of shiny synthetic material. It had pegs hammered into the ice and lines to keep the tent taut. There was a two-foot ice-wall here, a perimeter wall. Ever since they’d been unpacked from a transport, the Chinese bulldozers must have been busy.

The eight hovertanks were on the other side of the camp where the airstrip was. Paul could hear bulldozers, although they were a ways off. Nearer the perimeter wall, he heard men speaking Chinese.

Are any of these soldiers White Tiger Commandos? Does my promise mean I have to kill them now, or can I wait for a better time?

Paul stopped so he lay motionless on the ice. From where he was, he spied the head and shoulders of three workers. They moved to one of the tents, which was approximately fifty yards away. One of them moved from his fellows, undid his fly and took a leak.

Later, two soldiers reappeared. They carted what looked like an ammo crate between them. They moved the crate into one of the tents.

How well will the ammo keep in this cold? The military had had trouble with that in Quebec. Thinking about that, Paul realized he was becoming cold. The ice hungrily sucked the warmth from his body.

“We must move in,” Red Cloud whispered.

It seemed like a bad idea to try it now, but frostbite was an even worse idea, especially frostbite along his belly. Without nodding or saying a word, Paul began crawling. He moved slowly, too slowly to keep warm.

The Chinese would have spotted them except for three things: One, that perimeter wall gave them a bit of cover. Two, it was dark. And three, the workers kept their heads down. The soldiers concentrated on the ammo crates more than their surroundings.

Paul realized there were only two Chinese nearby. Just two men, two of the soldiers who had killed everyone at Platform P-53. As he thought about P-53, the old anger began to build in him. It roiled in his chest like a living thing and radiated outward to his limbs. It was hard sneaking around an enemy camp. It was even harder to kill a man in cold blood. To just get up and stick a knife into a man…most people could never do it. It did violence to their basic human nature. Paul had been trained, however, and he had killed before, but it was still hard for him to kill a man who wasn’t fighting back. He needed the anger in order to push himself toward what needed doing. So he thought of Murphy, and he told himself these soldiers had known about the killings and they had laughed about Murphy dying alone in a stalled cat.

“Okay, you bastards,” Paul whispered. He was twenty yards away from the perimeter wall. He was freezing cold and he didn’t think these two were going to go anywhere else anytime soon.

The two heavily-bundled Chinese moved to a new snow-caterpillar that had just pulled up between the rows of tents. That made it three Chinese now, including the cat driver, not just two. The soldiers moved to the back of the caterpillar. The former caterpillar headed away to the airstrip, probably to pick up another load.

Three Chinese, I have to kill three men fast with a knife.

Paul paused, and he unbuttoned his parka. He needed whatever advantage he could get. Slowly, he slipped out of the parka. An icy cold squeezed his ill-clad flesh. He clenched his teeth, drew his knife and waited for the moment to charge. Red Cloud moved beside him.

The pair of soldiers returned and entered the tent with a crate.

Paul rose up, jumped the perimeter wall and sprinted to the tent. Behind him, he heard a softly grunted curse—Red Cloud. Paul reached the tent, slipping past the flap.

The Chinese soldiers heaved a crate onto the top of a pile. With the sound of scraping wood, they shoved the crate into place.

Paul sprang like a panther as the nearest Chinese turned around. Paul rammed a knee into the man’s soft stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh of pain and shock. Then Paul leaned forward, placing one hand firmly over the soldier’s mouth. He put his weight behind his knifepoint. It went in like a skewer into carefully tenderized steak, sinking without a sound. Paul felt the body tense with the agony. Then he twisted the blade so it tore the soldier’s lungs and heart apart in one savage moment, killing the man instantly.

The soldier’s back arched and his teeth clenched on Paul’s palm. Blood trickled from the soldier’s nostrils and his eyes protruded as if he’d been strangled.

Paul withdrew his knife and wiped the blade on the soldier’s parka. He felt dirty killing like this. It was horrible work, but so was Murphy dying alone in a stalled cat.

Red Cloud’s soldier lay on the crates, his throat cut and blood pumping out and misting in the cold.

“There’s still the one in the caterpillar,” Paul whispered.

“We must hurry. Our luck can’t last much longer.”

Paul and Red Cloud strode out of the tent, their knives ready.

“You tap on his window,” Paul said. “I’ll come in from the passenger-side.”

The caterpillar was parked ten feet away. Red Cloud went around the back.

Paul took six rapid steps. Then he heard Red Cloud knocking on the soldier’s window. Paul opened the caterpillar’s passenger-side door. A Chinese man listening to his earphones looked up at Red Cloud. Paul could hear the tinny musical sounds as he climbed into the warm cab. The Chinese soldier whirled around, stared at Paul and went for his gun as he shouted. Paul thrust the Gerber blade into the man throat, the knife grating against neck-bones.

Red Cloud opened the door and twisted the soldier’s head, dragging him outside and burying his face into the snow. He stabbed the Chinese soldier, finishing the grisly task.

The radio in here—Paul used his bloody knife and pried and tore it out of the dash.

“What now?” Red Cloud asked.

“We use our grenade and hope they think one of the ammo crates went off on accident. Help me drag the corpses into the cat’s back.”

Once all three copses lay among the ammo crates, Paul told Red Cloud. “Go on, run like the wind.”

Red Cloud stared at him. Then the Algonquin sprinted away from the caterpillar. In the darkness, he hurdled over the perimeter wall and ran across the ice for the nearest pressure ridge.

Paul worked feverishly as he opened a crate. It was artillery ammo. With his knife, he made some quick adjustments, arming the shells. Swallowing hard, Paul pulled the pin and set the phosphorous grenade amongst the readied shells. Then he whirled around, picked up the radio and sprinted. He leaped over the ice-wall and ran. In the distance, he saw the dark blot of Red Cloud ahead of him. He counted the seconds.

Then he hit the ice, sliding across it, and he began crawling, hoping to put more distance between himself and what was about to come. A millisecond later, a terrific explosion rent the Arctic stillness. The shockwave lifted Paul, tossing him over the ice. Secondary explosions began as the ammo began to cook off.

All the while, a dazed Paul Kavanagh continued crawling, hoping that none of the shrapnel hit him.

AMBARCHIK BASE, SIBERIA

Jian Shihong hated the bitter cold of Siberia. It had been a shock climbing down the supersonic plane into this miserable place. The cold had hit as a hammer, driving icicle nails into his bones. He’d witnessed the base’s square buildings and the polar ice that had spread into the Arctic distance. According to the general explaining the situation, the darkness gripping this land would not relent for many months.

Jian had landed several hours ago, having made the trip in record time from Beijing. Now he was supposed to enter another plane and fly over the ice toward Alaska. That was madness, sheer insanity. He no longer believed the Chairman. He was certain the old man lulled those he was about to use. Telling him he was going to be the next Chairman—Jian was certain that had been a ruse. He had to take more risks to outsmart the clever old man dying in his underground bunker.

“Turn up the heat,” Jian said.

“Sir?” asked the general.

They stood in a large chamber filled with computer maps and working personnel. Lieutenant-General Bojing was medium-sized, with a round head and an immaculate uniform. His polished shoes shined so splendidly that at times Jian could see himself reflected in them. The military personnel at work covertly watched him. Jian could feel their gazes. But he’d yet to catch a soldier directly staring at him. Maybe they feared his bodyguards. Three of his team stood against the wall. They kept their hands on the butt of their guns, watching everyone. Their presence comforted Jian. He need merely point and they would shoot an offender.

“I’m still cold from walking around your freezing base,” Jian said. “I want it warm in here so I can think.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant-General Bojing, who turned and uttered a quiet word. Soon, extra heat billowed into the room.

“Yes, that’s better,” Jian said.

He hadn’t had time after leaving the Chairman’s bunker to speak with either Admiral Qingshan or Police Minister Xiaodan. He would have liked to compare notes with them or even ask Xiaodan’s opinion on the Chairman’s odd behavior.

What can I possibly do out on the ice that I cannot do from Ambarchik Base? It is a preposterous thing that I am so far from the seat of power.

“It’s the logistics problem that presses against us hardest,” said Lieutenant-General Bojing.

“What?” Jian asked crossly. This lieutenant-general had been trying to brief him for some time already. Did the man truly think he’d come out here to fix problems? This journey was a farce at best and a carefully laid trap at worst.

“Logistics, sir,” Bojing said. “It is the movement of supplies from the factories to the fighting men.”

“I’m well aware what logistics is. I used to be the Agricultural Minister.”

Bojing blinked at him. One of the other personnel started coughing sharply.

Before Jian could demand an explanation—he scowled as he scanned the chamber—Bojing touched his left wrist. Jian recoiled at the bodily contact.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Bojing. “I’m…I could use your expertise.”

Jian rubbed the back of his hand against his parka. How dare this man touch him? It was an insult.

“Umm, as I was saying, sir,” said Bojing. “It’s a matter of logistics. The length of the supply-line across the Arctic ice has stretched our resources to the breaking point.”

“That makes no sense,” Jian said. “You haven’t even started attacking yet.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bojing, dipping his head as he preformed a small bow. “I realize that. But maybe if I explained the situation in greater detail…?”

“Explain if you must,” Jian said, who kept trying to think of an excuse. He didn’t want to travel across the ice.

“Sir, normally a soldier outside his own country needs one hundred pounds of supplies a day.”

“So much as that?” asked Jian.

Bojing bowed his head. “In the Arctic, the need rises dramatically. Now to move a ton of supplies one hundred kilometers by rail takes fourteen ounces of fuel. A large cargo ship will take approximately half that.”

“We’re not shipping supplies by train or ship across the ice.”

“Exactly, sir. A normal truck consumes one percent of the supplies moved per one hundred kilometers.”

“Why this choice of words? What do you mean by ‘normal’?”

“On the ice we use highly modified caterpillars instead of ordinary military trucks. The caterpillars consume two percent of their load traveling every one hundred kilometers. That is twice as much as a normal truck.”

“Is that a problem?” asked Jian.

“The bitter cold wears on our Arctic caterpillar-haulers four to five times as much it would on normal trucks. Perhaps as importantly, the caterpillar-haulers travel slowly over the ice, seldom more than twenty kilometers per hour.”

“Is that because of the wave effect?”

“Exactly, sir, the motion over the ice by these heavy vehicles stirs the water under the ice. Too much motion and we risk breaking the ice and possibly losing the supply route, to say nothing about the caterpillar-haulers. Because of a number of factors, particularly our efforts to leapfrog the supplies, we are moving the majority of our goods by air. Once again, the extreme environment affects our efforts adversely. For instance, Arctic airfreight consumes five percent of the supplies per one hundred kilometers moved. The forward bases are over two thousand kilometers away.”

“It sounds to me like a mathematical problem,” Jian said.

“The extreme weather has caused more breakdowns than we anticipated. We have begged for a rush of winterized parts, but they have been slow in coming.”

“I will make some calls,” Jian said.

“We would be most grateful, sir. Could I explain another facet?”

“Of course,” Jian said. “It is one of the reasons why I’m here.”

“It’s called wastage.”

Jian scowled at the lieutenant-general.

“I know you understand all this, sir,” Bojing hastened to say. “The wastage I’m talking about today is the daily losses of troops and vehicles.”

“Have you secretly begun fighting the enemy?”

“No, sir, the cold fights us, the bitter weather. We’ve been losing approximately forty men a day to the weather, mostly because of frostbite. Unfortunately, there are a higher percentage of mechanical failures with the snowtanks and hovers. Once we enter battle, the attrition to both men and vehicles will surely rise.”

Jian appeared thoughtful. He wasn’t here to figure out problems like this. He was here to light a fire under General Nung. Yet maybe here was the answer to his dilemma. Under no circumstances did he desire to travel over the Arctic ice as the military fought the Americans.

“Yes, I see the problem,” Jian said. “We must increase the supplies, rush more winterized parts to Ambarchik and attack the North Slope at once.”

“Sir?” asked Bojing.

“If we are losing men and vehicles just getting into position, how many will we lose while waiting to attack?”

“Probably just as much, sir.”

“Then we must attack now!” Jian said, smacking a fist into a palm. He would put a fire under them. He’d have his bodyguards shoot anyone who disagreed with him to show them he was serious. “We will lose our fighting men in the cauldron of combat instead of to the weather.”

“Well…” said Bojing, who glanced at an officer standing nearby.

“I’m not interested in excuses, General. You must radio Nung—”

“We’ve been practicing long-distance radio silence, sir. This is a delicate operation. We cannot let the Americans know our exact whereabouts, not until we reach solid ground.”

As Jian gripped Bojing’s left shoulder, he smiled as a father would to his son. Oh, this was perfect. “I am naming you as my special envoy to General Nung.”

“Sir?” asked a bewildered Bojing.

“This hour you will board a plane and fly out to General Nung.”

“The general is in one of the forward positions, sir. That could be close to eighteen hundred kilometers away. The trip will take time.”

“The great distance is the reason why I’m sending you, a man of authority. You will tell General Nung to rouse himself and attack at once. I will tolerate no more delays from him. He must use whatever tanks and planes are ready and rush into battle. Chinese soldiers are dying fighting the Americans near Anchorage. Nung is no longer allowed to sit on the sidelines as he gathers supplies and shifts his tanks here and there. He is like a man diddling himself, and I will simply not have it. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do, sir,” said Bojing, who stared at Jian in wonder. Finally, Bojing seemed to remember whom he spoke to. “Umm, Minister Shihong, could I point out one troubling problem to your order?”

“If you must,” Jian said, scowling. He attempted to radiate his determination, hoping to affect the others in the room.

“I am in charge of supplies, sir, as it is my area of expertise. Ambarchik Base is the critical supply depot. The strength of General Nung’s soldiers is directly related to how well we keep the blood of clothes, fuel, spare parts, ammo and food pumping to them.”

“Do you feel yourself to be indispensable?” Jian asked coldly.

“Sir, General Nung and I have worked together for many years. He is the fighting soldier and I keep him supplied. He gave me explicit orders to—”

“One of the reasons I’m here is that General Nung is not fighting. His reputation lacks any virtue this time around. Men call him a fighter and yet he waits like a woman for a man to call. You will tell him I said that.”

“But Minister—”

“I have given my order,” Jian said in a silky voice. “Must I enforce it as well?” he asked, glancing at his bodyguards.

Bojing caught the direction of his gaze. Bojing bowed his head, but seemed unable to find words.

Once again, Jian gripped the man’s shoulder. “You have told me you two are close friends. Good. He will believe you then when I tell him that the Chairman is very unhappy with his progress. Tell Nung he is to attack. If he fails to attack—then on his return, he will be shot.”

The room fell silent, and Bojing grew pale.

“I will do as you order, sir,” said Bojing.

“I knew you would.” Jian smiled and studied the personnel around him. None dared to meet his gaze. The feeling of being watched had stopped. It felt good to wield power so decisively. Crack the whip and watch the ants scurry to their tasks. Perhaps he would become the new Chairman. First, he would show the world his command style by giving the order that ended with the capture of the Alaskan oilfields. He would put a fire under this General Nung. He’d make everyone obey his will as he began to implement the Chairman’s treasured command trick of setting his underlings against each other’s throats.

ARCTIC OCEAN

The pack ice crackled and splintered, the sound like a thousand snowballs hitting a wall.

Paul scrambled to his feet as he glanced over his shoulder. Red Cloud jumped up, too. The continued cracking made the pack ice under Paul’s feet tremble. It reminded him the ice was no more than three and-a-half feet thick here. He had the sick feeling the ice would continue splintering and plunge him into the freezing Arctic Ocean.

They had survived their mad gamble and managed to get out of the Chinese supply dump. They had also connected a power-source with the stolen radio and tired many different bands. Finally, Paul had spoken with the Marine battalion headquarters stationed in Dead Horse. They discovered the U.S. was at war with China.

“I can’t talk long,” Paul had said. “So listen close and start taking this down.”

He’d explained about Platform P-53, the White Tiger Commandos and the Chinese supply dump near his position. Then he’d told the operator that he would call back in an hour. Paul and Red Cloud both feared having the Chinese find their frequency and sending someone out to kill or capture them. They had both agreed never to surrender.

“Check the parts of my story that you can. Then when I radio back in an hour you can tell me if you’re going to believe me or not.”

An hour later, he and Red Cloud had found themselves talking to a Marine captain. The Marine believed them all right. The captain had also told them that a submarine was coming to meet them. They were supposed to remain where they were and wait for the submarine’s appearance.

As the ice cracked and splintered nearby, they still waited.

“It takes longer to surface than one realizes,” Red Cloud said.

Paul nodded. They’d dragged the toboggan away from the splintering sounds. From a safe distance, they now watched as a black ‘sail’ of an American ballistic submarine broke through the pack ice and rose like a steel tower. In time, a hatch at the top rose into view. A man emerged, a good two stories higher up than they were.

Paul cupped his hands as hoped surged through him. We’ve been rescued. “Down here!” he shouted. “We’re over here.” Paul waved his arms.

A spotlight came on, washing them in light. Soon, several soldiers appeared on the sail. The soldiers used rungs and climbed down.

Paul recognized their insignia. They were U.S. Army Special Forces, sometimes known as Green Berets. That surprised him. They were from the 1st SFG, an A-Detachment. They were America’s premier unconventional soldiers. What were they doing out here on the pack ice?

Special Forces soldiers jumped onto the ice and jogged toward them. Each cradled a stubby assault rifle. Several of the soldiers surrounded them, half the guns were trained on Red Cloud and the rest on Paul. A master sergeant shined a light first in Red Cloud’s face and then on Paul’s.

“All clear,” the master sergeant said into a microphone on his shoulder.

“Are you taking us aboard?” asked Paul.

“Negative,” the master sergeant said. “Now tell me exactly what happened to you.”

It took time. As Paul talked, with occasional anecdotes added by Red Cloud, sailors with axes climbed down the sail. They chopped at the pack ice. It was grunt work. In time, the main body of the submarine appeared. The sailors went to a larger hatch, which mechanically opened. The sailors wrestled out snowmobiles and hooked up sled attachments.

“Are those for us?” asked Paul.

“The fewer questions you ask,” said the master sergeant, “the better it will be for you.”

“Is that a fact?” Paul said.

Several of the Special Forces guards raised their assault guns a trifle higher as they eyed Paul with greater hostility.

The master sergeant nodded. He was about Paul’s size. “You don’t like that. I can understand. The truth is you did good, as good as any of us could have done.”

“I’m Marine Recon and I did better than any of you could have done.”

“You’re ex-Marine Recon,” the master sergeant said. “They discharged you and I can see why. We checked your files, but we believe you two anyway.”

“Wonderful,” Paul said. “Now if those snowmobiles aren’t for us and you’re not giving us a ride back, why are you here?”

“To hear your story,” the master sergeant said.

“That’s it, huh?” asked Paul. “Ask us for intel and then leave us stranded out here?”

“Don’t be bitter, pal. There’s a war on and we’re getting our butts kicked. So we’re starting to play hardball again.” The master sergeant unhooked a walkie-talkie, handing it to Paul. “Use this after we’re gone, say—” the man checked his watch. “In thirty minutes. There’s a bush plane on the way for you. They’ll pick you up and take you back to Dead Horse. But be warned, the people in Dead Horse will want you to help them fight.”

“That suits me,” Paul said. “I have some payback coming for the White Tigers.”

“I thought it might be like that. You two did good, both of you. Now we’re going to give these Chinese a bloody nose—thanks to you. Sorry if I have to do it this way, but I have my orders.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “And good luck to whatever it is you guys are doing.”

“You’ve given us our first bearing on them. They’ve used and keep using some fancy EW on us and some hard-to-spot planes. Now we’re going to teach them we Americans play for keeps.” The master sergeant leaned near, whispering, “Don’t look back no matter what you hear. You might even want to cover your eyes then.”

“You aren’t talking nuclear, are you?” asked Paul.

“We’re not, but I hear somebody is.” The master sergeant brushed his nose. “If I were you, I’d get out of here fast.”

Paul nodded. “Maybe we’ll start heading south now then.”

The master sergeant eyed him and Red Cloud. “I’m supposed to detain you until the sub is ready to dive, but you two have been through enough. Go on, start walking.”

Semper Fi,” Paul said, holding out his hand.

“Same to you, Marine,” the master sergeant said, shaking hands. He had a strong grip. Then he shook Red Cloud’s hand. “If I were you two, I’d hurry.”

Paul and Red Cloud took his advice, stumping to their skis, hooking them back to their boots. The master sergeant waved as they skied away. His men waved. Paul and Red Cloud waved back. Then the two of them concentrated on putting as much distance between the others as they could.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“That’s the full extent of what we have, sir,” General Alan told the President.

Anna Chen sat underground in White House Bunker Number Five. This was an emergency session. Everyone sitting at the circular conference table looked worn and tired. Some were groggy.

Everyday there was more bad news. The President took it the hardest. His shoulders had slumped and the bags around his eyes had become discolored. Whenever U.S. resistance grew toughest along the Number One Highway, the Chinese called for the tri-turreted tanks. The T-66s always smashed through or chased away the defenders, and the Chinese advance continued. General Alan had explained how enemy minesweepers were busy at work in Cook Inlet. Once the Chinese Navy cleared the inlet and took Anchorage, then South Central Alaska was lost. Once South Central Alaska was lost, the State was as good as gone. The consensus in the chamber was that Anchorage’s fate would decide the war.

“We need a decision, sir,” General Alan said.

The President compressed his lips.

Anna’s heart went out to Clark. The conflict had aged him. This decision…it was likely the hardest of his life.

General Alan had just explained that if the U.S. military could save Alaska, America could still lose the oil war. The fate of the North Slope oilfields was critical to the national economy. It was the lifeblood giving America time as they switched to heavy coal use and various forms of solar-power. The general had been telling them about the Chinese threatening to attack the oilfields with their ice-mobile formations.

“We have too few men on the ground in and around the North Slope to win any fight,” General Alan now added. “I’m amazed and surprised at their feat. The Chinese have moved tanks and hovers almost all the way across the polar ice.”

“What about air?” the President asked.

“They’ve used special air-transports,” General Alan said.

“I mean our air,” the President said. “Let us hit them with air strikes.”

Thin General Alan shook his head. “The constant air battles over the Kenai Front have decimated our Air Force, sir. The Chinese have better planes, missiles and electronics, but we have some tough pilots willing to dogfight with them. That means losses. You know how the Air Force generals kept begging for more reinforcements. Then Sims demands more air cover. As the Chinese gained air superiority in south Alaska, they hunted down our supply columns. Do you remember giving your okay, sir, for the transfer of winterized fighters from the North Slope to Anchorage?”

President Clark wearily shook his head.

“We’ve stripped the North Front, sir,” General Alan said. “We hardly have anything left near the Prudhoe Bay oilfields or ANWR.”

The President looked stricken.

Maybe it compelled General Alan to add, “Because of that, sir, we haven’t completely lost the air war on the Southern Front. Our pilots are tough, and as long as they have planes to fly, they’re willing to engage the enemy.”

The President bent at the waist as he put his hands on the table and rested his forehead on his hands. The moment lasted several seconds. Abruptly, he sat up and glanced at Anna.

“You know the Chairman better than anyone else,” Clark said. “What do you think his response will be?”

Anna blinked in amazement as she realized what he asked her. The President of the United States was passing the decision to her. If she told Clark the Chairman would go nuclear, the President would decide against the Navy plan. In that moment, Anna felt a tremendous weight settle onto her heart. It was galling. She found it difficult to breathe. She had an inkling then what it meant being the President at a time like this.

Anna felt the eyes on her. Everyone waited on her words. In a strange way, it reminded her of long ago in the Teenage Beauty Pageant. Then everyone had watched and weighed her. Anna Chen frowned, concentrating. She wanted a sip of water, but she was afraid to reach for it. She didn’t want to see her hand tremble. She didn’t want anyone else to see that.

Anna looked at President Clark. “Sir,” she said, “this situation seems different from the previous discussion to use nuclear weapons. This time our military would do it away from prying eyes and in a hidden manner. And you’re leaving the Chairman his primary military forces. For him, that might make all the difference.”

Clark’s mouth moved, but no words came.

“Do you understand what you’re saying?” asked the Secretary of State.

Anna nodded. She knew. They were talking about using one nuclear weapon to hit the Chinese now on the pack ice and scare them. Afterward, the Joint Chiefs would use a different plan to hinder the Arctic Chinese.

The President licked his lips. “This strike won’t unleash a nuclear holocaust?”

“I’m not a military expert,” Anna said. “I’m only considering the Chairman’s psychology. The critical factor as far I can see is that the attack is hidden from the world’s eyes. More than anything else, the Chairman abhors public humiliation. As I said before, this leaves the Chairman’s military units intact. He has an inordinate attachment to the military and hates high Chinese losses. He believes such losses confirm old stereotypes concerning China. What you’re planning in the Arctic, it seems to me it prevents the Chairman from achieving his goal. But without doing it in a single devastating attack that obliterates all Chinese polar forces. It allows the Chairman to retreat and therefore he is not pushed into a corner where he feels he must hit back tit-for-tat.”

The President stared at her. He nodded then, and he turned to General Alan. “Tell them yes, I approve of the plan.”

ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul turned and lightly punched Red Cloud on the shoulder. “Can you believe it?”

Red Cloud shook his head.

A plane taxied down the ice toward them. Its propeller twirled and the engine idled. Finally, the small bush plane came to a stop on the ice, its lights bright in the polar darkness.

Red Cloud unhooked the harness from his shoulders, leaving the toboggan where it lay. Paul shook off his backpack, listening to it thump on the ice. Then he kicked off his skis and ran toward the plane. Both men kept their assault rifles.

Paul beat Red Cloud to the bush plane. He ducked under the wing, yanked open the door and shouted, “You Pilot Pete?”

“That’s me, mate,” a small bearded man said. He wore heavy clothing as heat billowed out of the cramped interior.

Paul slid off his assault rifle and stowed in within. Next, he shoved in the Chinese radio. Then he hoisted himself up and slid toward the back. Red Cloud followed his example and soon slammed the door shut. The Algonquin sat up front with the pilot.

“I know you,” Pete told Red Cloud.

The Algonquin nodded.

“So it’s really true?” asked Pete. “The Chinese murdered everyone at Platform P-53?”

“It is true,” Red Cloud said in a grave voice.

“Let’s get out of here!” Paul shouted from the back. “I think the Navy is about to trigger a nuke against the Chinese.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” shouted Pete.

“Go, go,” Paul said, “and don’t look back. In fact, if it looks like the sun is coming up or starting to shine, it means the Navy ignited a nuke.”

“He is right,” Red Cloud said. “We must hurry.”

Pete turned to his joystick. “Hang on.” He pushed the stick forward as the engine began to roar.

Paul sat back in his seat. This felt glorious. He had a heavy growth of beard and mustache, and it had been a long time since he’d felt anything but the warmth of his own breath held under a sleeping bag. Now warmth flooded the cramped cabin. He settled back and enjoyed the thrill of the bush plane bumping over the ice. He looked outside, amazed at how fast they were going.

There was an extra roar of noise, and the bush plane lifted. Paul let out a war whoop. It caused Pete to jerk around.

“Don’t do that,” Pete said. “It freaks me out.”

“Sorry,” Paul said. “You just have no idea how I feel.”

“I sure do. I’ve been lost before in the wilds. Yep, it’s good to get back to civilization. Right now, this plane is civilization to you.”

Paul nodded, and his eyelids grew heavy. It felt so good just to relax. He was going home. He’d see Cheri and Mikey again. He could hardly believe it. As he thought these beautiful things, the bush plane continued to climb into the night sky.

USS ATLANTA

The USS Atlanta was a Los Angles-class nuclear attack submarine. It had waited in the ice as the two Blacksand mercenaries skied away. The submarine waited as the Special Forces team had roared away on the snowmobiles.

That had been many hours ago. Now finally, a signal arrived from Dead Horse. It had traveled all the way from the White House. The captain was asleep in his bunk when the chief knocked on wood paneling.

“I’m up, Chief,” the captain said from his bunk.

Without disturbing the curtain guarding the captain’s privacy, the chief relayed the radio message.

Soon, the captain swept the curtain aside. He wore his officer’s hat and he had buttoned on his uniform. Solemnly, he strode to his place near the periscope. Per his orders, the USS Atlanta eased out of the pack ice and sank into the frigid waters. The submarine headed onto a new bearing.

“Prepare the torpedo,” the captain said.

The members of the bridge crew stared at him.

“This is not a drill,” the captain said quietly.

That began a flurry of motion aboard the USS Atlanta. Sixteen minutes and thirty-two seconds later, a blast of air expelled the nuclear-tipped torpedo from its tube. Then the electric motor engaged. The big torpedo headed toward a precise heading under the ice.

“Turn her around, Chief,” the captain said, “and take us down. We don’t want to be anywhere near here once it goes off.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief said, an old man and gray-haired. In a hollow voice, he gave the needed orders.

All the while, the nuclear-tipped torpedo headed toward its preset coordinates. Those were the same coordinates as the forward Chinese supply dump. Destiny awaited their meeting.

ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul was almost asleep when an immensely bright light illuminated the darkness. The bush plane’s engine roared, the only sound any of them had heard for some time.

“What is that?” shouted Pete. The small pilot began to turn around.

Paul bolted upright and shouted in the pilot’s ear. “That’s a nuke, friend.”

The intensity of the light grew, and it hurt their eyes.

Red Cloud groaned in his seat.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” said Pete.

“Ditto,” Paul said, as he gripped his seat belt.

Pete bobbed his head, finally turning forward again. “It’s bad. I wouldn’t want to be closer than we are now. But I think it’s too far to hurt my plane.”

Paul glanced back then too. We’re using nuclear weapons. He shook his head. Nuclear weapons in the Arctic—war couldn’t get any dirtier than this.

“Hang on!” shouted Pete. “Just in case, I want put more distance between us.” The small bush plane roared through the Arctic night, racing the bright light shining in the pack ice.

AMBARCHIK BASE, SIBERIA

As he rubbed his aching eyes, Jian Shihong settled himself before a screen. One of his bodyguards had shaken him awake and told him grim news. The Chairman was calling an emergency meeting of the Ruling Committee. The Americans had used a nuclear weapon on the pack ice. Hearing that, Jian had bolted out of bed.

Now he sipped hot tea, trying to focus his thoughts. Bojing had already left for the Arctic Front to find General Nung. What if I had boarded that plane? Now I would be traveling onto a nuclear battlefield.

Jian shook his head. He would never willingly tour a battle-zone. One trained soldiers for such a task, hotheaded fools eager to become heroes.

Jian read the report for the fifth time. The Americans had launched a nuclear-tipped torpedo! They’d destroyed a forward supply depot, one meant to replenish stocks of advancing hovers and snowtanks.

His screen changed from its holding pattern. Instinctively, Jian sat up, sliding his tea out of view. He saw the members of the Ruling Committee: the Chairman was at the head of the table. On one side of him were the admiral and the Police Minister. On the other side sat Deng Fong and the Army Marshal.

I should be there. I am at a disadvantage speaking through a screen. I am like a ghost, haunting the meeting.

Jian knew that his features would be on the large computer-scroll at the other end of the table as the Chairman. Each of his gestures and features were being recorded. He’d have to remember that.

“The Americans have broken an unspoken accord between us,” the Chairman was saying.

“They have an affinity for using nuclear weapons on peoples of Asian descent,” the Police Minister said.

“Is that really true?” Deng asked.

“They once dropped two nuclear bombs on Japan,” the Police Minister said. “Now they are attacking us. Yes, it is true.”

“I don’t think you’re aware of all the facts,” Deng said. “You must understand that Japan was a uniquely dangerous opponent for the Americans. Militarily, no one has ever been able to strike such devastating blows against modern America as the Japanese. They attacked Pearl Harbor and drove the Americans out of the Philippines.”

“What is your point?” the Chairman asked.

“Sir,” Deng said, “I do not believe the nuclear attack was racially motivated as our illustrious Police Minister has implied. I think our invasion has frightened the Americans into using nuclear weapons.”

“The point is they’ve used them on Chinese soldiers,” Jian said.

No one in Beijing appeared to hear his words.

“I will not tolerate this use of nuclear weapons against us,” the Chairman said. He sat rigidly in his wheelchair, with pain creased across his features. “Do the Americans think Greater China is a secondary power? A power they can indiscriminately attack with nuclear weapons?”

“I have studied the attack,” Deng said. “I do not believe it was indiscriminate.”

“Explain that,” the Chairman said.

“They used a torpedo to explode pack-ice,” Deng said.

“That is completely immaterial,” the Chairman said.

“Respectfully, sir, why didn’t they attack our forces in the Kenai Peninsula with nuclear weapons? It would have proven much more effective there toward the defense of Alaska.”

“Your question reveals a lack of knowledge concerning the present battlefield,” Admiral Qingshan said. “We have laser batteries and anti-missile rockets whose primary purpose is shooting down tactical and theater-level nuclear weapons. That is why the Americans haven’t attacked there. They cannot.”

“Have the Americans used nuclear-tipped torpedoes against our fleet?” Deng asked.

“It’s only a matter of time now before they will,” the Chairman said.

“But they haven’t,” Deng said.

“Make your point.”

Deng moved his water glass before answering. “Sir, I suggest we hesitate before retaliating with nuclear weapons.”

“I will not tolerate the use of such weapons against Chinese forces,” the Chairman said.

“It is unspeakable,” Jian said.

“Why use torpedoes?” Deng asked. “There must be a reason for that. Why haven’t they fired missiles at the cross-polar assault?”

“Excuse me, sir,” the Army Minister said. “But it would prove difficult for the Americans to hit our forces on the ice with long-range missiles. Our strategic pulse-lasers protect the higher altitudes over the pack ice. With space-mirrors, we could knock down such missiles before they reached our assembly areas.”

“I see,” Deng said. “Interesting.”

“The torpedo attack shows the Americans’ desperation,” Admiral Qingshan said. “I suggest it means they have little in way of defense on the North Slope. Mr. Chairman, I suggest an immediate assault on the military bases there.”

“I appreciate your concern,” the octogenarian Army Minister said. “Yet I wonder if you desire the immediate assault in order to draw attention away from your naval brigades.”

“The ice itself is an enemy,” Qingshan said. “This torpedo attack proves that. I cannot understand why you would want your polar formations on it any longer than necessary.”

“Do not worry about them,” the Chairman said, as he glanced at Jian. “The Chinese Army will soon launch its attack on the North Slope.”

“We will light a fire under General Nung,” Jian said.

“The Americans have already lighted that fire under him,” Qingshan said dryly.

“You seem to feel the Army is tardy in its assault,” the marshal told Qingshan. “First, you must understand that crossing the pack-ice has proven harder than my planners had anticipated. It was and is a nightmare journey, with many unforeseen incidents and accidents. A few formations are almost ready for the final lunge as they gather the needed supplies. But there is a problem.”

“Yes?” Qingshan asked.

“The most dangerous zone is the last four hundred kilometers,” the marshal said. “If ground units become stalled in that area, they become easy targets for the Americans. Therefore, operational theory calls for a swift and continuous advance across the last zone. In order to achieve that, forward supply depots are needed.”

“I find it interesting that the Americans chose to destroy a depot with their nuclear torpedo instead of directly destroying a military assembly area,” Qingshan said.

“They likely don’t know the whereabouts of such an assembly area,” the marshal said.

“These military details are secondary,” the Chairman said, interrupting. “The point is: the Americans have used nuclear weapons against us. I refuse to let that go unpunished.”

“Are you suggesting we use nuclear weapons?” Deng asked.

“Yes,” the Chairman said.

Deng appeared uneasy. “May I ask where, sir?”

“Perhaps Fairbanks would do,” the Chairman said.

“They have strategic lasers protecting Fairbanks,” Qingshan said.

“We must find a place to retaliate,” the Chairman said. “I demand it.”

“Maybe we already have such a place,” Deng said, “a non-place.”

“I do not care to hear any more of your clever suggestions tonight, Deng,” the Chairman said. “I want revenge. I want the Americans to feel my anger. It is intolerable that they think China will lie supine while they launch nuclear weapons upon us.”

Deng nodded. “You carry the soul of China in your heart, sir. You are outraged, and you feel this assault upon our honor because of your special connection with the people.”

“You guide us, sir,” Jian said, trying to keep his hand in the conversation.

“Yes,” Deng said. “You guide us. Yet I wonder if in this instance the Americans haven’t handed you a gift.”

“A gift by incinerating Chinese soldiers?” the Chairman asked dangerously.

“Never that,” Deng said.

Jian yearned to attack Deng verbally, but he feared the man’s cunning. He also feared Deng’s ideas.

“Very well,” the Chairman said. “Speak your mind. Let us hear what your cleverness can concoct from American savagery.”

“That’s my point, sir,” Deng said. “Much of the world views us as aggressors.”

“We are the aggressors,” the Chairman said. “Despite our propaganda campaign, it is never wise to lie to oneself.”

“I agree,” Deng said. “Many view us as aggressors. Now the Americans have used nuclear weapons. That will lose them support. Every torpedo they fire will create a worldwide groundswell against them. It will create an outcry against nuclear weapons. We will be able to use that later.”

“People respect strength,” the Chairman said. “If the Americans destroy the polar forces, others will fear them more. How could that possibly help us?”

“From what I’ve heard here,” Deng said, “the Americans might destroy a few more supply depots, but they will be unable to reach our military forces. We wait outside the four-hundred kilometer danger-zone. Once we’re ready, we will invade and capture the North Slope.”

“What if these attacks embolden the Americans to use nuclear weapons against our fleet in the Gulf of Alaska?” the Chairman asked.

“I think there is a message in their use of a torpedo under the ice,” Deng said.

“If they use such weapons against our fleet,” Jian said, “we should use nuclear weapons in the Kenai Peninsula.”

Every member of the Ruling Committee finally glanced at him.

“I don’t agree,” Admiral Qingshan said. “We need the Kenai Peninsula intact. We would have to use nuclear weapons elsewhere.”

“I have made a resolution in my heart,” the Chairman said. “If they destroy our cross-polar formations with nuclear weapons, we shall destroy their oilfields in retaliation, crippling their economy. And I have another more devastating way to use our nuclear weapons, one that none of their strategic lasers can stop.”

“What is that, sir?” Jian asked.

The Chairman stared at him. “It is an idea I will hold in reserve at the moment. You, however, will carry on with your assigned task.” The Chairman gave him a meaningful nod.

“Yes, sir,” Jian said.

The Chairman pressed a button on his wheelchair, and Jian’s screen went blank. If left Jian staring at his cooling tea, wondering if he should signal Bojing’s plane, telling the lieutenant-general to return to Ambarchik. Should he find General Nung himself? The Chairman had given him the nod.

Jian was still wondering twenty minutes later.

-14-

Drive on Anchorage

PRCN SUNG

The Chinese supercarrier and its escorts were well out to sea. It was overcast and gray rolling waves spread in all directions.

Deep inside the mighty vessel, Admiral Ling stood before the OBS, the operational battle screen, studying the situation on the Kenai Peninsula. With his single hand, he keyed up information as the need occurred to him. As Ling ingested the data, several certainties began to become clear.

The hatch opened and Commodore Yen entered the chamber. Before approaching the admiral, Yen murmured a greeting to a keen-eyed operator.

Ling nodded as the Commodore sidled near. Then the admiral cast a suspicious glance at the operator Yen had singled out. Why would the notoriously snobbish Commodore even notice a battle-intelligence operator? Oh. Then it became clear.

“The man is an East Lightning spy?” Ling asked in a whisper.

Commodore Yen turned away from the operator, one among several in the OBS room. He moved so now his mouth was hidden from the man’s view. The tall flag officer adjusted his VR monocle as he regarded the admiral. “I thought you knew, sir,” Yen said quietly.

“No. I had no idea.”

Yen shrugged dismissively. “They are everywhere. The chief political officer aboard ship spends much of his time recruiting naval personnel to spy on their superiors.”

“I thought the men in here were all vetted.”

Yen said nothing.

Scowling, Admiral Ling returned his attention to the OBS. “We have a limited time to crack the glass vase that is Anchorage. So far, the Americans have held fast.”

“Sir,” said Yen, surprised, “even now our naval brigades are driving the Americans back. Every time the enemy dares to make a stand, our forces smash through. If I may be so bold, sir, how can you say the Americans are holding?”

“You must see through the first level of a situation before you make such pronouncements,” chided Ling.

The Commodore seemed startled. After a moment’s thought, however, the serene look returned. “You conquered Taiwan, so I would not presume to teach you the art of war, sir.”

“No, no,” said Ling. “Do not be so shy. I am old. I am maimed. What could I possibly know?”

“I would not presume to say, sir. I suspect, however, that you have a new plan to implement.”

Admiral Ling nodded as his good eye, the dark one, became like a pool of swirling ink. There were deep eddies in that eye, a depth of character and subtlety.

“We have nine naval brigades,” Ling said, “each twice the size of any American brigade. What is more, we possess superior equipment and training, superior morale and soldiers. We have stormed onto the peninsula and now drive through it along two routes, Highways One and Nine. Highway One began at Homer. Route Nine started at Seward.”

“Seward,” said Yen, “the Vice-Admiral’s base.”

“For now, personalities don’t matter. The critical factor is our weight of numbers, nine full brigades against several American brigades. These Militiamen bolster them, but they shouldn’t make the difference.” Ling cleared his throat. “You were mistaken a moment ago when you said we ‘smash through’ those Americans daring to make a stand. To smash through implies that we have swept away the defenders so they are now chaff.” Ling shook his head. “That is far from the case. We drive against them as they defend the twin routes. Each kilometer we force them back, is a kilometer closer for them to their base of supplies. That means the closer they approach Anchorage, the easier it will be for the Americans to reinforce their sectors. What makes it worse for us is that each highway resembles a thin artery. Along the artery must pump food, fuel and ammo to our soldiers. Each of these routes snake through a terrible wildness of ever bigger and steeper mountains and denser forests.”

“You speak the truth, sir. And yet, by driving them back we are surely winning.”

“In a first phase analysis, yes, you would be absolutely correct. To win we must reach Anchorage. Hence, as we near Anchorage, we are winning. Yet until a sector along one of the arteries collapses, we are unable to thrust at Anchorage with speed in order to take it in a single swoop. Because of the two winding routes, we have only been able to hack our way to the city like an explorer hacking a path through a jungle.”

“The Americans have much fewer soldiers than we do, sir. We will win a war of attrition, a war of hacking, as you say.”

“For now that is so, yes,” said Ling. “Yet the factors are changing. The Americans are constantly air-ferrying soldiers from the mainland, from the bottom states to the fronts. Intelligence has also informed me that a large military convoy is boring through the frozen highways of the Yukon.”

“We’ve interrupted most direct air-ferrying into Anchorage,” said Yen. “We’ve slowed them.”

“First, as you’ve just said, we’ve slowed them. Yet the Americans still dare at times to rush transports into Anchorage airport. Mostly, they fly to outer bases and put the reinforcements onto trains to Anchorage and thereby to the Kenai Peninsula. I would like to throttle all air transport into the city and force the Americans to land their reinforcements and supplies all the way up at Fairbanks.”

“That would help immensely.”

Ling nodded. “It would change the mathematical equation in our favor, I agree.”

“Which is what?” asked Yen.

“There are several factors at work, you understand.”

“…I’m not sure I do, sir, at least not how you see it.”

Ling gave the Commodore a crooked grin, the only kind he could give since half his face was paralyzed. “Because of the thin arteries—the Number One and Nine Highways—massive traffic jams often bottleneck our supplies. That also makes it difficult to bring up fresh brigades or battalions to the point of battle. At the point of battle, we hack the Americans in attritional fights. Unfortunately, that costs us in Chinese blood and munitions. Yes, we have superior soldiers and tech. But the Americans fight for their homes and are on defense, which is the stronger form of warfare as they can fire from behind boulders and trees, and pop up from foxholes.”

“I still don’t understand your reason for pessimism, sir. We keep pushing them back.”

“Yes! As they trade space for time. Given enough time, they can reinforce their lost soldiers—as long as they maintain the open air corridor.”

“By the look on your face, sir, I believe you have the answer to our dilemma.”

“I have several answers,” said Ling. “They are each risky.”

“How can they entail risk as long as we have better soldiers and hardware?”

Admiral Ling reached up and pointed at a red symbol on the OBS. It was much deeper inland than any of their penetrations. It was, in fact, hundreds of kilometers inland.

“You’re pointing to their nearest ABM laser station?” asked Yen.

“Strategic ABM laser station,” said Ling. “The Americans haven’t used it yet to attack our aircraft, primarily because we’ve given them little opportunity to do so.”

Yen studied him. “Are you suggesting sending our bombers into the protected airspace? It would cost us heavily, I afraid. If we lost too many planes, it might jeopardize the safety of our carriers. Can you really risk that, sir?”

“We must risk it if we hope to cordon off Anchorage from air-supply. Once that is accomplished, we can smash anything crawling along the ground trying to reach the city. That will dry up their reinforcements, their ability to strengthen their defensive positions along Highway One and Nine. As I said before, it is a mathematical formula. If they can trade these controlled increments of space for time long enough, then their main reinforcements from British Columbia will reach Anchorage before we do. If they can, they will seal us off in the peninsula. My accelerated push will also demand better traffic control on the twin routes. We must switch the brigades facing the Americans, allowing each combat group the chance to hammer the retreating Americans in turn. That will give our blooded brigades time to rest and regroup. By all means, we must find more ways to bring our superior numbers to bear against the dwindling Americans.”

“We will, sir, especially once we reach Anchorage and then break out.”

“This ABM laser station,” said Ling, pointing at it on the OBS. “We must first destroy it.”

“With long-range missiles?” asked Yen.

“No, that’s out of the question. Even cruise missiles would fail as the site burns them out of the air with their pulse-lasers. For this attack, we must use our Ghost-bombers, our newest stealth craft.”

“Ah, yes, I see why you said risky earlier. Forgive me for my presumption, but I’m guessing you mean to use all of them.”

“Yes, of course all. It is a deep raid. If the Americans are awake and have been holding fighter reserves for just this eventuality….”

Commodore Yen nodded sagely.

“I know the political risks,” Ling said. “The rewards beckon me, however. If we destroy the strategic ABM station, it will open up all South Central Alaska’s hinterlands to our fighters.”

“I don’t disagree, sir.”

“But?” asked Ling.

“It still leaves the Americans an air strongpoint in Anchorage. The base facilities there are powerful.”

“Absolutely true. That is why I will use a second surprise.”

“What is that, sir?”

Admiral Ling told the Commodore his plan.

As he heard the words, the Commodore’s monocle fell from his eye. The Commodore caught the expensive VR monocle before it could break on the floor, and he nodded. “You are bold, sir. Your plan truly is risky, but it is also brilliant.”

ARCTIC OCEAN

Because of badly iced wings, Lieutenant-General Bojing’s transport plane went down. He had traveled a long ways from Ambarchik Base in East Siberia. Now his transport hit the pack ice. He snapped forward, hitting his forehead against the padded seat in front of him. He heard the explosive sound of crackling ice and the tortured sound of twisted metal.

I must escape from the plane before it sinks into the freezing water.

Men shouted all around him. Bojing was dazed and kept trying to remove his restraints. Then soldiers cut his restraints and hauled him upright. The men were cruelly strong, hurting him.

“Hurry, sir!” a man shouted in his face.

Bojing stumbled down the crazily tilted aisle. Ice groaned outside and the entire plane shifted.

Men shouted, and a dazed and head-bleeding Bojing found himself shoved through a door. He crashed onto ice. His legs crumpled under him. One of his ankles flared with red-hot pain. Someone hauled him upright. He had to hop on one foot.

“Move!” roared a sergeant.

Bojing looked up as hail beat at his face. They’d tried to fly through this blizzard. Yes, yes, he was on his way to speak with General Nung. The deadly Ruling Committee Minister—Jian Shihong—had taken over Ambarchik Base. Bojing tried to clear his foggy thoughts. Men pitched supplies out of the plane.

“This way, sir!” a man shouted in his ear, making Bojing yelp. He dragged Bojing. As the soldier did, the world began to tremble and thunder roared.

It’s the ice. It’s cracking under my feet. I’m going to die.

Two men grabbed Bojing and ran. Each step on his bad ankle caused shooting pain.

They barely beat the cracking ice. The plane groaned and shrieked metallically as it slid underwater and out of sight with a tremendous splash. A spray of freezing droplets of seawater wet the back of his head. He hadn’t donned a hood or hat yet, having spent hours inside the plane.

Bojing lay gasping, tasting his own blood as it trickled down his forehead.

“Wrap this around him and set up the distress signal,” a man said.

“What?” Bojing muttered. Then a scarf was wound around his throbbing head. Who would come to get them? They were lost in the middle of the Arctic Ocean and were supposed to keep radio silence. He had a message to bring General Nung, a message to attack the Americans. Bojing cursed this wretched blizzard, this logistics nightmare that was the cross-polar attack.

TALKEETNA, ALASKA

One hundred and twelve miles north of Anchorage was the small town of Talkeetna. It was at the end of the spur road near Mile 99 of the Parks Highway. Talkeetna was small and unpaved, with a Wild West flavor. Denali National Park loomed over the town. In 1917, it had opened as Mount McKinley National Park. In 1980, it had been renamed according to Native traditions. In any case, Denali was more than six million acres of wilderness and was the heart of Alaska with the biggest mountain and the wildest rivers.

There was a U.S. Air Force dirt road in Denali National Park connected to the small town. At the end of the road was a massive complex of building. In them were several nuclear plants to power one of the nation’s strategic Anti-Ballistic Missile pulse-lasers. Nearby was another base with old Patriot missiles and F-16 fighters.

The Talkeetna ABM laser, as it was known, helped protect Anchorage from direct Chinese air assaults. There were two mobile laser batteries protecting Anchorage airport from the airport, but they were small, tactical weapons as compared to the giant pulse-laser near Talkeetna.

Two nights had passed since Admiral Ling’s discussion with Commodore Yen. A special attack group had assembled on the Chinese carriers. The carriers had steamed over four hundred kilometers nearer before the catapults began lofting the bombers, EW craft and fighters.

“Tonight,” said Ling, “we open up the war. By doing so, we will tighten the screws on the Americans.”

Fifteen Ghosts skimmed across the waves as they sped to the west of the Kenai Peninsula. They were the latest in ultra-stealth technology, saucer-shaped craft that seemed to have more in common with people’s perceptions of UFOs than bombers. Anti-radar paint, special radar resistant alloys and computer-constructed planes and shapes hid the sub-sonic bombers from American radar, passive and thermal sensors. For all their sophistication, however, the Ghost S-13s had several critical vulnerabilities. They were slow, poorly armored and needed ultra-advanced AIs to help fly an otherwise un-flyable craft. That in turn meant they were expensive, terribly so.

“You—” Commodore Yen broke off and cleared his throat.

“Yes?” Ling asked. They were in the OBS tonight as they awaited word of the strike’s success or failure.

“It was nothing, sir,” said Yen. “Please, forget I spoke.”

“My friend, do not hold back your views now.”

Commodore Yen seemed to choose his words with care. “We must hope that none of the S-13s crash tonight, lest the Americans gain our secret technology.”

Ling smiled crookedly. “You mean, I’d better not lose any or the Chairman will have my head.”

“I never said that, sir.”

“No,” said Ling. “You didn’t.” The one-armed admiral returned to watching the OBS.

As part of the overall attack, Chinese Mongoose, advanced superiority fighters, waited over Lake Clark National Park, which was well west of Cook Inlet. The Mongooses were almost two hundred kilometers to the south of the Ghosts. EW Anchors cloaked the Mongooses’ presence. The electronic warfare craft circled with the fighters as they watched and waited with everyone else.

The fifteen Ghosts moved in a similar pattern as nap-of-the-earth attack helicopters. They flew along the edge of the Alaska Range, heading deeper inland.

One of the electronic warfare Anchors sent a signal to the Sung supercarrier.

“The Americans are asleep,” said Yen, as he studied the message.

“Maybe,” was all Admiral Ling said.

Time ticked away as darkness concealed the fifteen Ghosts. Strategic ABM sensors were the best. If anything could crack the hidden bombers….

One of the Ghosts wobbled. It was a sign. His instruments must have picked up something. Yes, American radar had grown in strength. The enemy must know something was happening.

“Sir,” said Yen, far back in the Sung. “You must send in the fighters to protect our Ghosts.”

“And lose them all to the ABM laser?” asked Ling. “No, I am not so inclined.”

“But look there, sir,” Yen said, pointing at the OBS. “The Americans are lofting F-15 Eagles.”

“I know what those are. No. We must crack the air-defense net behind Anchorage by taking out their strongest point. We must risk the Ghosts.”

“Need I remind you, sir—”

“You will watch in silence,” said Ling. “That is an order.”

The Commodore hesitated before nodding stiffly.

Meanwhile, the fifteen stealthy bombers neared the giant ABM complex. Above at high combat air patrol was a squadron of nervous F-15s.

The lead Ghost pilot, Captain Peng, checked the stats on his missile. He had one, a bore worm. A remote control operator in China would guide the bore worm into the ABM station and explode it where it would do the most damage. Fifteen bore worms should more than do it.

Can all fifteen of us get in? Captain Peng twisted sharply. On his tac-board…the F-15s were hunting. More precisely an AWACS farther behind was hunting for them. If all the Ghosts could get in firing range, could all of them get back out again?

The targeting sequence started. Captain Peng inched his plane a little higher. Outside, pines whipped past his aircraft. “Now!” he said, pulling the release switch. There was a jolt as the bore worm dropped. A microsecond passed, then afterburners ignited in the missile, and it whooshed off into the night.

If everything had gone right, Captain Peng knew that their missiles had leaped into existence on American radar and thermal sensors, badly surprising the enemy. He banked, lifted to miss pines, and quickly sank again to inches over the canopy. Other bore worms now launched at the strategic ABM station.

“Luck,” said Captain Peng as he started the painful journey home to the carriers.

Fourteen bore worm missiles launched at the ABM station. The fifteenth malfunctioned and tumbled into the Denali National Park.

American anti-missile cannons began firing almost right away. Half the F-15s roared down from CAP, trying to intercept the missiles.

In China, remote controllers worked feverishly. A bore worm went down. A remote controller groaned as simulated death-shocks ran through his convulsing body. Another missile exploded in the darkness, raining molten parts onto the trees and beginning a fire. All the time, the rest of the missiles homed in on the defensive complex with its blazing cannons. Another bore worm died. The Americans were good, better than the Chinese thought they would have been.

Then bore worm missiles reached the Talkeetna ABM complex. The first of seven successful missiles burrowed through the concrete and earthen shields of the plant. They bored—and exploded, knocking out each of the nuclear power-plants and wrecking the focusing mirrors.

The strategic ABM station was badly damaged by the attack. And the wrecked nuclear plants lethally radiated the American base personnel that escaped the initial fireball. The pulse-laser shield of the American air-defense for South Central Alaska was gone.

***

The nearest F-15s went after the slow-moving Ghosts. The Americans knew where they were now, and they were out for blood. Before the J-25 Mongooses arrived, the F-15s shot down eight of the stealth bombers. Then, by direct order of C-in-C Sims, the American fighters turned away from the approaching J-25s. Seeing that the pulse-laser was nothing more than a pile of radioactive rubble, they would need every fighter used in the wisest manner possible if they were going to save Anchorage.

JUNCTION ONE/NINE HIGHWAY, ALASKA

In his torn and dirty parka, Stan Higgins lay on a hill among pine trees. From his hiding spot, he tried to analyze the enemy’s intentions. The Chinese were on lower ground and camped on both sides of the highway.

Stan shivered from cold and lack of sleep. From several miles away, Chinese artillery had bombarded them on and off again all night. His last precious M1A2 tanks—all four of them—were dug in a quarter mile back. Militiamen had chopped down pines. Using the pines and lots of earth, they had constructed low canopies for the tanks, making bunkers. Those bunkers would probably stop anything except for what they needed to—the T-66s.

Thinking about the hardworking Militia building the heavy log roofs, Stan wondered what had happened to Bill Harris, his best friend and pastor of the Rock Church. The last time Stan had seen Bill, the pastor had heaved a sticky mine at a T-66’s tracks.

Shaking his head, Stan tried not to think about Bill. That was many hard battles ago. He’d seen hundreds of Americans die since then and as many Chinese. Every fight was different yet they all ran to a pattern. He shelled the Chinese as they advanced and then he drove away, stopped, fired, and keep driving to the next fortified line. After every battle, new trickles of warm bodies and massive loads of munitions restocked them for the next fight.

As he lay on his stomach, the night turned into a gloomy day. Stan tried to pierce the snowflakes gently falling from the sky. In normal times, this would be too early for snow. But with the new glacial period—

Stan stiffened.

“Something wrong, Professor?” Jose asked.

Stan nodded, seeing something he didn’t like.

The Chinese had been pressing even harder lately. Last night, however, there had been a pause in the fighting, a longer one than usual. The snow might have something to do with that.

Adjusting the binoculars, Stan looked closer at Chinese soldiers with snow-shovels. They cleared the main road, Highway One. Craning his neck, squinting at them, Stan tried to make out their insignia. …ah, it showed a leopard on the patch and said 125th. That’s what troubled him, a new group of Chinese had moved up. That was always a signal for another hard push.

From the woods, a muffled shot rang out. Several such shots did. One of the Chinese shoveling snow, pitched over. The others ran back into the sheltering snowfall. The moment of idyllic grace was over. American sharpshooters crawled in the woods, sniping Chinese whenever they got the chance. The Chinese reacted to sniper fire with predictable heavy-handedness.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Stan, as he slid down their side of the hill. “The Chinese artillery will probably open up any second now. Go!”

Jose and Stan floundered through the snow as they ran downhill. They raced out of the no-man’s-land between the two lines and back for their side. Sure enough, about halfway there, Chinese mortar-fire began peppering the woods. Stan ran harder and his heart pounded, from this point on their lines were upslope on higher ground. Behind him, he heard crackling branches and loud thumps.

“Well?” shouted a panting Jose. “Was crawling to the Chinese to gain a forward look worth it?”

“Ask me...in a few,” panted Stan. Steam poured from his mouth.

Soon, they reached their line and jumped into a trench. U.S. Army soldiers looked up. One sergeant cursed, as Stan had kicked over his coffee pot.

“Sorry,” said Stan.

“Thanks again, sir,” the sergeant said, picking up the pot and setting it back on his tiny stove.

Stan looked over his shoulder, listening for anything unusual. Now that he’d made it back to their line, the enemy mortar-fire had quit. Murphy’s Laws made themselves felt all the time at the front. Stan took several minutes to catch his breath. Then he headed down the trench for the commander’s hut.

“What are you going to report?” asked Jose, who followed him.

“That I’ve spotted a new battalion or a new brigade. That’s probably why they didn’t attack last night. They must have traded places with the Chinese forces that were attacking us before.”

“And now it’s going to be the big push?”

“They’ve all been big pushes.”

“You know what I mean,” said Jose. “Everyone keeps talking about the big one. It’s in the Chinese interest to obliterate us so they can drive the rest of the way to Anchorage in peace.”

“Well,” said Stan, “you can read a map as good as I can. We’re guarding the Junction, right?”

Jose nodded.

“If we lose the Junction, it means everyone holding Highway Nine has to retreat. Otherwise, the enemy can move down Highway Nine and crush our forces from behind. From what I hear, what’s left of the 1st Stryker Brigade is getting jumpy. Their commander doesn’t think we can hold.”

“You know him don’t you?”

“Brigadier Hector Ramos?” asked Stan. “I sure do. He’s among the best we have.” He frowned then and turned to Jose. “If I were the Chinese commander, I’d have unleashed the big push yesterday.”

“Good thing we had this snow then.”

“It slows them down,” admitted Stan. “It also looks like they used the time to reorganize, just like we used it to rest and get another trickle of reinforcements in place.”

“You hear about the new Abrams coming?”

Stan nodded. “It will be good to have other tanks in the sector with us. I’m hoping to talk with their commander and tell him what we’ve learned.”

“Good idea,” said Jose. “Look. There’s the colonel.”

“I’ll be back in a few,” said Stan, who hurried after the CO who ducked into his command hut.

***

The snow fell heavier the rest of the morning. Each flake was big and wet, and together they clogged every road and path. Stan along with others heard rumors about a big air attack that had occurred somewhere deep in Alaska, but neither he nor anyone else knew what it had been about.

Around two in the afternoon as the snow began to lessen, twenty M1A3 U.S. Army Abrams tanks rolled into the rear area of their sector. Soldiers whooped with delight upon seeing them.

“The cavalry has arrived,” a tanned Major Fred Benson told the colonel in Stan’s presence.

The colonel had his data-net team here and spoke to Major Benson and to Stan and the other officers, explaining the situation. Benson spoke up more and more often, offering suggestions. He and his tanks had flown in from California, landing in Fairbanks, taking the train to Anchorage and motoring the rest of the way down Highway One.

After listening to one too many of Benson’s suggestions, the colonel turned to the Californian major. “I’m not sure you have a full grasp of the situation yet.”

“Of course I do,” said Benson. “The Chinese have been giving you boys a hard time. Well, that’s ‘cause they have tanks and you didn’t.”

“We have Abrams tanks,” the colonel said. “His.” He pointed at Stan.

Benson’s tanned features were skeptical. “Begging your pardon, Colonel, but he’s National Guard.”

“Do you have something against them?”

“Not a thing,” said Benson. “But we’re trained tankers and have the latest modifications. We also have the newest Army ordnance. We’ll blow these big Chinese tanks out of the way for you.”

“They have 175mm guns,” said Stan.

“I’ve read the specs,” Benson said. “They don’t impress me much.”

“A hit from them will take out an Abrams,” said Stan.

“The trick is tactical maneuver,” Benson said. “Those Chinese monsters are slow. My babies are quick and we don’t plan to wait for them to attack us.”

“The T-66s are fast on the road,” Stan told him. “They have retractable wheels.”

Benson waved his hand. “I’m talking about off-road movement. My Abrams will run rings around them, if it comes to that. I have the newest long-range rounds. So—ka-boom,” said Benson. “No more T-66s.”

Stan began shaking his head.

“Do you even know anything about the new sabot rounds?” asked Benson.

Stan rattled off their statistics, which caused Benson to raise his eyebrows.

“We call him the Professor,” the colonel said. “There’s a reason for that. If you want to know anything military, you ask him.”

Stan reddened at the compliment.

“I’ll stick to the latest tanker tactics,” Benson said.

“This isn’t the Mojave Testing Ground,” the colonel said. “This is Alaska, and the Chinese are good.”

“The Chinese have never been good with armor.” Major Benson grinned confidently. “Gentlemen, I can see the Chinese have you rattled. And I don’t blame you. But that’s going to change now, let me tell you. The cavalry has arrived and we’ll blow those mother-lovers away for you. I only ask one thing.”

“What is that?” the colonel asked dryly.

“A long field of fire and some maneuvering room,” Benson said.

“That’s two things,” the colonel said. “But never mind. Can you help him arrange that, Professor?”

“Yes, sir,” said Stan.

The colonel glanced around at them. He nodded crisply. “I suspect the Chinese are going to open up soon. So let’s get ready to greet them. I dearly hope you know your trade, Major Benson. The fate of Alaska might well depend upon it.”

“Sir?” asked Benson.

“We have to keep the Junction open long enough for the 1st Stryker Brigade and their Militiamen to leapfrog back with us. We can’t afford to lose them. So we hold here until further orders.”

“Hold?” Benson said. “I plan to attack.”

“You’ll do what I order you to do,” the colonel said with heat.

Major Benson nodded, but his smirk said he had his own plans.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

C-in-C Sims was worried because the Chinese had taken out the strategic Talkeetna ABM station. The giant pulse-laser had been the backbone of air defense in South Central Alaska. Now the Chinese could hunt inland, possibly hitting the train line from Fairbanks or even attempting to interdict the transport flights landing in Fairbanks.

Sims had rearranged SAM sites, moved tactical laser batteries and lofted more air, particularly early warning radar and fighters. His pilots were overworked and they flew outdated aircraft, but they were tough and knew the stakes.

So far, he had kept the Chinese ground forces away from Anchorage. It had cost too many American lives doing it, however. As fast as the reinforcements arrived, he sent them against the Chinese in the Kenai Peninsula. If the Chinese could interrupt his small but steady trickle of reinforcements—

“Where are they going to hit next?” Sims asked his Air Chief.

“If I were them,” the Air Chief replied, “I’d put the rail-line out of commission.”

Sims studied the situation on an operational map as he sat in headquarters in Anchorage. The strike against the Talkeetna ABM station hurt. It gave the Chinese greater freedom. How would they use that?

“We need more laser batteries,” Sims told the Air Chief.

“We need more of everything,” the man replied.

PRCN SUNG

It was over thirty-seven hours since the destruction of the strategic ABM laser site in Talkeetna. Now Admiral Ling’s second risky attack was about to commence. The first had worked beautifully, if he’d lost more Ghosts than he would have liked. Victory in Alaska would absolve him of any problems concerning that.

Admiral Ling stood on the bridge of the supercarrier Sung. He watched as the steam catapults launched bombers into the gray sky. Once aloft, the heavy planes climbed toward waiting fighters and EW craft.

Ling had worked himself to exhaustion these past days. He attempted to ensure coordination between the various arms and fronts. He had ensured coordination on the carriers for this new air-team venture. If his plan worked, he would shatter the Americans like a glass vase.

“That’s the last of the bombers,” Commodore Yen said beside him.

Admiral Ling gave him a rare smile. “Order the helicopters into the air. It is time.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Yen said.

***

Fifty big Heron bombers climbed to launching height. The supercarriers were already one hundred and fifty kilometers to the east behind them. Ahead of them waited Anchor EW craft and J-25 Mongoose fighters.

Captain Cho piloted the lead Heron. He had run many bombing missions already, but this one was special. Anchorage airport was the target. If everything went well, it would be the beginning of the end for the Americans.

“Launch,” came the order from a controller aboard the Sung.

Captain Cho’s palm was moist. He glanced at his navigator, gave him a grin and then yanked a lever.

At the bottom of the large bomber, a big Goshawk drone dropped from the pylons. It fell fifty meters before the turbojets kicked on. From other Herons dropped more Goshawks.

Slowly, the bombers dropped behind as the Goshawks climbed higher. Each was remote-controlled from Mukden or from one of the supercarriers. In a deadly flock, the Goshawks increased speed as they headed for Anchorage airport.

In time, the Goshawk drones passed the EW Anchors.

The Anchor pilots were nervous. They had practiced this four times during the naval exercise. It should work now against the Americans. They climbed to the same height as the Goshawks, but kept eighty kilometers behind.

Now they turned on powerful jamming equipment. It would take time and electronic effort for the Americans to pierce that. And once they did—

The Anchor crews were busy, but not as much as the flight controllers aboard the Sung were. There were other smaller bombers following and the many fighters to protect the last wave, the infantry-carrying helicopters.

If anything went wrong, this could prove the costliest error in the war so far.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

It was a clear day over Anchorage under the overcast sky. The international airport was busy as always. There were two laser batteries stationed nearby along with AA guns and Wyvern SAMs. A garrison platoon manned machineguns and Army MPs drove around in jeeps and manned the perimeters on the unlikely chance of saboteurs.

Between the airport and Anchorage was C-in-C Sims’s command post. It was underground and linked to the airport’s radar net.

“Sir,” the Air Chief said. “You should look at this.”

“What now?” Sims asked.

The Air Chief pointed at a large screen. There were an easy thirty enemy blips on it, moving toward Anchorage.

“What—?” even as Sims began to ask his question, the computer screen went white.

“Someone is jamming us, sir,” a nearby operator said.

“I’m getting nine fixes, sir. Nine jamming aircraft.”

“Are the Chinese attacking us directly?” Sims asked.

The Air Chief nodded.

“Put everything in the air,” Sims said.

“I’m already on it.”

“And break that jamming!” Sims shouted.

“That will take some time, sir,” an operator said.

“We may not have time,” Sims said.

***

The Goshawks flew toward the airport as their transponders gave off precise signals, making them appear as regular Chinese bombers. Their jamming equipment would help confuse American radar.

Behind the Goshawks by forty kilometers followed the Herons, with precision air-to-ground missiles primed.

A wave of F-15s moved to intercept the enemy. They launched air-to-air missiles, and in less than twenty seconds, sixty of the missiles raced toward the Goshawks. Eagle radar burned through enemy jamming, guiding their missiles to target. Soon, the missiles slammed into, exploded and killed thirty-seven Goshawks.

The remaining Goshawks bored toward the airport and into range of the tactical lasers. They beamed, and Goshawks began to fall apart.

Now the Herons moved into position. Captain Cho nodded, and the bombardier released precision-guided air-to-ground missiles. All around them, the other bombers did likewise.

Now one hundred Chinese missiles burned for their targets: for airport radar stations, laser sites and SAM installations.

“Glory to China,” Captain Cho said, as he increased speed. He would follow the missiles, and make a single bombing run.

***

Sims stared at a video-feed of a laser destroying a Goshawk. “What is that?”

“A drone,” the Air Chief said.

Sims squinted at the screen. Then he turned to the Air Chief. “They’re trying to saturate us.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Let them rip themselves apart on our sword,” the Air Chief said. “Put everything aloft.”

“Yes, sir,” said an operator.

“They’re trying to do to us what they did at Talkeetna,” Sims said.

***

The F-15s had launched almost all of their air-to-air missiles. They still had their cannons, however. They used afterburners to close the gap with the enemy. Behind the Eagles followed several squadrons of F-16s.

Now the more numerous Chinese Mongooses showed up, and air-to-air missiles streaked through the sky at the American planes.

Before contact occurred, the airport’s laser batteries lit the skies with stabbing beams. U.S. Wyvern missiles roared from their launching pads. AA guns poured tracer fire into the air. It was a maelstrom.

Chinese fighters went down. F-15s blew apart. Then Chinese missiles began to arrive at the airport, and explosions occurred. The missiles knocked out radar stations, SAM sites and a laser focusing system.

The surviving laser began to overheat as bombers appeared in the sky. The last Wyverns launched as the Herons unloaded their smart bombs.

Few of the Chinese Herons left the vicinity of Anchorage airport, as the F-16s now attacked.

It was a costly battle on both sides. The Chinese had more planes and better tech. The Americans had ground-based weaponry helping them. As the Chinese knocked out those systems, they finally gained air superiority over the airport.

***

“Sir,” a radar operator asked Sims. “What are those do you think?” He pointed at his screen, at the blizzard of blips that seemed to rise from the ground.

“I don’t care what they are,” said Sims. “Kill them.”

“Can’t do it at the moment, sir,” the operator said. “The last laser is re-juicing.”

Sims had a cold feeling in his chest.

“What are they, sir?”

“I wish I knew,” said Sims.

***

The last wave of the Chinese attack approached Anchorage airport. They were heavy Chinese choppers. During the intense air-battle, the helicopters had sped over the waves of Cook Inlet. Now they streaked for Anchorage airport. As the heavy choppers neared, remaining flak guns opened up in the city. The first chopper exploded in a hail of gunfire.

Now bay doors rolled open on the Chinese craft. One after another, men leaped out of the bays. They wore dinylon body-armor and Eagle-7 jetpacks. The elite Eagle Teams engaged their rugged battlefield thrusters. Kept airborne and mobile, each soldier used a joystick-control to guide him. They had assault rifles attached, grenades and RPGs, although none of them used their weapons yet. They were too busy flying their jetpacks.

The flak guns continued to pound the choppers, and the big machines kept dropping out of the sky, most minus their jetpack cargos. Now the Eagle Teams swooped for the cratered airport. It was a sight, men dangling in their jetpacks.

Lieutenant Chiang led his squad. He watched the ground rush up toward him as the wind whistled past his helmeted head. He had thick wrists and a steady hand. Behind him on his back, the jet whined. His bones shook, but he loved this. Checking his gauge, he saw that he had another fifteen minutes of fuel.

He approached a flat-looking building. Americans ran outside. They held assault guns. Some of the Americans knelt, raised their weapons and began firing. Chiang clenched his teeth as he concentrated on flight.

A bullet whanged off his dinylon armor. Chiang shouted as he veered to the side. He almost lost his balance, and that would have sent him plummeting to his death. Around him, Chinese jetpack-soldiers plummeted to the ground. Fortunately, his internal gyro stabilized him. Chiang knew he had to touch down fast. He used his joystick, and he felt a sudden lurch as the ground rushed up.

Then several Chinese attack helicopters swooped in with the Eagle Teams. The 25mm chainguns cut down the Americans firing up at Chiang.

I’m saved. It was a wonderful feeling.

With another deft use of his joystick, Lieutenant Chiang’s feet touched down. He shut off the jetpack and unsnapped his harness. With a clang, the assembly fell from his shoulders.

Chiang was barely in time. More Americans ran out of the building. Throwing himself prone on the tarmac, Chiang brought his assault rifle to bear and began firing, cutting down the first American.

Then other Eagle Team members touched down and shed their packs. Chinese soldiers began shouting to one another.

They were on the verge of capturing the airport. Lieutenant Chiang knew if they could keep the airport for any length of time, the admiral could begin air-ferrying naval soldiers into this critical rear position of the Alaskan defense. Admiral Ling would have taken the city and stranded the Americans on the Kenai Peninsula.

***

“Recall all of them!” Sims shouted. He’d stripped Anchorage of defenders earlier, sending them to the front to try to stem the Chinese push.

“Sir, what about the highway strongpoints?”

“If we lose Anchorage, none of that matters. Recall the Army Rangers in their helicopters and land them as close as you can to the airport. We have to get it back, now! We have to drive the Chinese out of there or the game is over!”

***

Lieutenant Chiang led the assault against the last Americans in the airport. The Eagle Team commander radioed him afterward, telling Chiang the Americans wouldn’t give them much time. They had to set up fast and hold until the Chinese naval infantry got here.

JUNCTION ONE/NINE HIGHWAY, ALASKA

News of the jetpack attack on the Anchorage airport swept through the defenders waiting along Highway One.

“Are we cut off back here?” men asked.

It was four hours of questions, of growing panic, before the Chinese bombardment at the front sent soldiers cowering to their foxholes and trenches. Stan Higgins awaited the attack in his Abrams.

They had the high slope here, a long upward area with big boulders and rocks strewn everywhere. There were pines in places, but more stumps. Chainsaws had been buzzing for endless hours—days. Now the slope was a giant boulder-earthen-pine strongpoint, protecting the highway that wound through the American position.

“I still don’t understand,” whispered Jose. “If the Chinese hold Anchorage airport—”

“How many times must I tell you?” Stan asked. “They struck at the airport, but I doubt they’ll be able to keep it long.”

“Why not?” asked Jose.

“Because we can’t afford to lose it and certainly not Anchorage,” said Stan. “It’s the key to Alaska. General Sims will use everything we have to dislodge the Chinese from the airport.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“So far, we’ve been lucky.”

“How do you figure that, Professor?”

“The Chinese haven’t attacked us here yet. If I were them, I’d hit us hard right now while the men are shaky.”

“What do you think this bombardment is?”

Stan peered through his scope. He was worried about the jetpack strike like everyone else. His reading of history also let him understand something: the psychology of the attack. Men liked being brave. Soldiers honored courage. If a man faced the enemy with his friends, he could usually hold his spot. That had been particularly true of ancient combat. What men and soldiers hated, however, was having somebody at his back. The reason was obvious. An enemy at your back could freely hit you. Therefore, in ancient times particularly, if enemy troops managed to get behind an enemy formation, the soldiers in the formation often ran away. Once they broke formation, they lost the battle. Having the Chinese in their back lines frightened the men up here. It was a mental thing, a spiritual thing, yet it was very real for all that.

“I don’t hear anything,” said Jose.

“The bombardment has stopped,” said Stan, as he peered through his scope.

“I hope so.”

I don’t, Stan told himself. It meant the main attack was coming. Moreover, if Jose and Hank were any indicator, the American side was shaken by the news of the Anchorage airport assault. It might not be so easy holding today with panicked soldiers.

“Oh no,” whispered Jose.

Stan stood, opening the commander’s hatch. He thrust up, but not too high, lest he hit his head on the heavy log roof over the Abrams. He heard the familiar rattle-squeal-clank of Abrams tanks. To Stan’s amazement, Benson’s M1A3s moved out of their bombardment position. The tanks went to take their spots around the highway, giving them a good field of fire. It was crazy, but under the circumstances, it was heroic.

“Ignorance is bliss,” Stan whispered.

He glanced around at soldiers in their foxholes who had popped up to look. They stared wide-eyed at Benson’s massed Abrams. Then soldiers began to cheer.

“Well, would you look at that,” said Stan.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Jose asked.

Taking out his binoculars, Stan peered down the long slope. Those were Marauders, and they were charging at high speed.

“Why aren’t they using smoke to shield them?” Jose shouted out of the tank.

Stan had no idea, unless maybe the Chinese troops had heard about what their jetpack brothers had done. Maybe even as it panicked the American side, it had bolstered the Chinese. Maybe the Chinese figured they were simply going to overrun the Americans today.

American 120mm guns traversed, and Benson’s Abrams opened up, sending their long-distance sabot rounds shrieking at the enemy.

“Hit!” shouted Stan. “They’re hitting Marauders.” Stan found himself grinning. He didn’t care anymore if Benson was one arrogant prick of a tanker. If the man could shoot Chinese like fish in a barrel, that was just fine with him. “Mighty fine,” Stan said with a laugh.

From the trenches and foxholes, U.S. Army soldiers, National Guardsmen and Militiamen cheered wildly.

The Marauders began firing. A shell slammed into an Abrams. The tank blew up. Another Chinese shell bounced off an American tank. Then the American tanks fired again. It was a glorious sight, and it poured massed fire down at the Chinese. It also destroyed the Marauders.

“You’d better button up,” said Jose. “The Chinese will likely start another bombardment.”

Stan thought likewise. Then he froze. He focused his binoculars on three T-66s. Dropping the binoculars, he picked up his receiver and shouted to Benson’s Abrams, “Get behind something, a boulder, dirt—hide!” he shouted to Benson’s tankers.

Instead of doing anything so sensible, the M1A3 Abrams revved up and began to move down the long slope toward the giant Chinese tanks.

To Stan, it seemed as if a hush descended on the battlefield. Soldiers waited. They watched. Stan couldn’t believe that Benson was really that arrogant. How could the major dare charge the tri-turreted tanks?

Then the American tanks skidded to a halt, and their cannons boomed. Shells roared down-slope and smashed against the first T-66. Smoke billowed around the monster.

“He’s going to learn now,” said Jose.

The Abrams revved and moved as Chinese shells screamed at them. An American tank blew up. Then the smoke cleared from the first T-66. Stan expected to see an unhurt monster. Instead, incredibly, the Chinese tank lay on its side, destroyed.

“What the heck?” Stan whispered.

Another volley roared from American cannons, and another T-66 blew apart under a hammering hail of massed fire.

“He’s killed two T-66s,” Jose said in awe.

The third Chinese monster fired its three guns. WHAM! WHAM! Two of Benson’s Abrams flew apart, one in a ball of fire. The remaining tanks fired back, and the third T-66 was destroyed.

“He did it,” Stan said.

“And he’s advancing on them!” Jose shouted. “He’s attacking the enemy.” Jose whirled around in his seat. “We have to help him. Let’s hit them now, Professor. Let’s drive these Chinese out of Alaska.”

It took Stan a moment. Then he gave the order, deciding they had to attack while they had the chance.

At that moment, Chinese attack helicopters rose into sight. There were a mass of them. They launched ATGMs at Benson’s tanks.

The massed M1A3s put up a hail of machinegun fire. From behind the trenches, American SAMs launched. Missiles, 25mm chaingun-fire and lead filled the air. Helicopters exploded, as did big Abrams tanks. Black smoke poured from other helicopters as they veered away. Abrams tanks raced in various directions. They used the terrain to try to duck out of sight of the remaining helicopters. It was confusion for a time, chaos. Once the last helicopter left the battlefield, more T-66s appeared. There were six this time, double the number as previously.

Benson’s Abrams no longer fired in union, and now the big Chinese guns boomed. It was a bloodbath as the two sides continued to hammer at each other.

MOOSE PASS, ALASKA

Brigadier Hector Ramos leaned his elbows on the outer hatch of his nineteen-ton Stryker. Behind him on Highway Nine were the remnants of the 1st Stryker Brigade and his Militiamen. All his combat vehicles, including the Humvees, had scotch marks or holes. Ammo was low. Soldiers were exhausted. Before him at the Junction were the sounds of battle and the grim silhouettes of one hundred ton tanks. Behind him on Highway Nine that led to Seward came the Chinese of the Vice-Admiral’s brigades.

“What do we do, sir?” asked Major Philips. “We’re caught between two forces.”

Ramos stared at the Junction. He’d heard Philips by radio. The fight was almost over at the crossing. The National Guard and Army grunts…it was amazing they’d held out so long. A small trench line had been dug nine miles away on Highway One. It was supposed to be the new holding position. The way things looked here, however….

“We could have used those Army Rangers to help stem the tide,” Philips said.

“The Army Rangers and others are fighting the Eagle Teams in the airport,” Ramos said. “Everyone headed toward us has turned around to save Anchorage. They have to knock out those Eagle Teams before more Chinese land there.”

“I know,” Philips said. “You’ve explained it to me. My question is: what do we do now? Our united front is just about smashed, with no reinforcements coming to help save our bacon.”

Ramos scowled at the glowing red haze that was the Junction. He turned and scowled down Moose Pass. His brigade and Militiamen had been worn away. He had to save these weary men. He snapped his fingers. He had an idea.

“What miracle are you going to produce today?” Philips asked.

“Not me,” said Ramos. “But there might be one coming.”

“What do we do?”

Ramos pointed where the enemy T-66s roamed. “We roar through the Junction. The miracle lies there, with two enemy forces trying to use the same highway. It’s called a traffic jam. The Junction is a gauntlet now, and we’re going to lose men and vehicles. But in that direction lays our hope. Are you ready?”

“Give the order, sir.”

JUNCTION ONE/NINE HIGHWAY, ALASKA

“That’s it!” shouted Jose. “We’re down to four shells.”

Stan had circles around his eyes and the inside of the Abrams smelled like gunpowder. Outside the tank was bloody snow, shell-holes, corpses, burning Marauders, burning IFVs, Bradleys, an obliterated M1A2 and too many destroyed M1A3s. There were also seven wrecked T-66s. Some had lost treads. Others were smoking hulks. A few had engine failures and they had been swarmed and destroyed.

“Go, Hank,” Stan said. “Just go.”

The big tank lurched. A roar sounded. An enemy shell screamed past, but it missed.

“Faster!” shouted Stan.

At that moment, Strykers appeared from nowhere. Their M2 Brownings and the auto-grenade launchers added to the mayhem. The Strykers appeared, and they roared down Highway One. Humvees tried to do the same trick. Half of them exploded, flipped or the drivers pitched forward, instant corpses. It was another bloodbath, with Chinese vehicles and men firing into the cauldron.

Stan’s tanks were the rearguard. They fired. The machineguns blazed, and the last Americans bolted from the battlefield. Despite Major Benson’s initial successes, it had been a rout and a battle of annihilation.

This had happened before, but reinforcements had always been busying setting up another line of defense in the rear area. Those troops that would have done so were in Anchorage or they were heading back to help throw out the Eagle Teams at the airport.

It looked like the way was open for an even faster Chinese advance, maybe to the very gates of Anchorage itself.

-15-

Deer Hunters

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The President strode into the conference chamber of White House Bunker Number Five. He approached his chair, stopped and scanned the expectant throng.

Anna Chen watched from her spot at the table.

A wintry smile twitched President Clark’s mouth. “I have an announcement to make,” he said. “It’s the first piece of good news I’ve had for some time.”

“Sir?” asked the haggard Secretary of State.

“I’ve just spoken with the Prime Minister of Canada,” Clark said. “The opposition Party threatened a vote of no confidence. They knew many of the Prime Minister’s Party members were angry with his do-nothing policy against the Chinese.”

“Are the Canadians finally going to help us?” the Secretary of State asked.

Clark frowned.

Anna wondered if he wanted to savor the news before telling them.

“Yes,” Clark said. “Even as I speak, Canadian fighters are heading for Anchorage. If we’re lucky, they’ll keep the Chinese from landing reinforcements at the airport.”

“We must take the airport back!” the Defense Secretary said.

President Clark sat down at the table. “The Canadians are rushing airborne troops there to help us do just that. They’re also airlifting defensive equipment.”

“What kind of equipment, sir?” the Defense Secretary asked.

“Canadian laser batteries and SAMs,” the President said.

“Why did they wait so long?” asked the Secretary of State.

Clark shook his head. “I don’t know. But we have a chance again. We have a window of opportunity to rearm Anchorage. The Chinese are grinding our Air Force down to nothing, but this infusion of planes will help us keep fighting a little longer.”

“Thank God for that,” the Defense Secretary said.

“Now if we could just get the Mexican government to loan us equipment,” Colin Green said.

“It would help,” said Clark. He slapped the table. “The Canadians are keeping us alive. Now we need to do something to end this war. We need ideas.”

“We need more troops,” the Defense Secretary said.

Clark turned to General Alan. “What’s happening on the Northern Front?”

General Alan cleared his throat and began to speak.

SOLDOTNA, ALASKA

Pastor Bill Harris lay on cold earth as he peered through his binoculars at a convoy of Chinese vehicles. They were big trucks, and they were full of supplies, using the Number One Highway. Pines grew tall on the other side of the road.

“Well, Pastor?” asked the man beside Bill.

Sergeant Bill Harris of the Alaskan Militia lowered the binoculars. Over a week ago, he’d fought T-66s at Cooper Landing and barely escaped from his foxhole. His hearing was still lousy, with a constant ringing in his ears. Maybe as bad, his back hurt all the time.

He opened a bottle of aspirin, pouring three capsules onto his palm. He’d run out of Advil several days ago. He popped the aspirin into his mouth and began chewing. They were dry and bitter, but they helped battle the pain.

Bill lifted his bottle toward his friend Nanook, who sat nearby, deeper in the woods. The Inuit mechanic wore what looked like a turban. It swathed his face, with only his eyes showing. He had bad burns and he’d lost all his hair. Nanook shook his head. The man was a liability stuck out here behind enemy lines, but there was no way Bill was going to leave his buddy behind. He’d vowed to bring his friend home to his family.

“Well?” asked the man beside Bill.

Bill caped the bottle and shoved it into his pocket as he stayed on his belly. He wanted to go home to his wife and kids. He also wanted to stop the invasion.

The blasts that had destroyed a T-66 at Cooper Landing had also rendered Nanook unconscious. Three Militiamen had dragged him out of the battle and hidden with him as Chinese infantry swept the area. Now the five of them remained free, although they were behind enemy lines. The Chinese advance had passed them a week ago.

“We can still help our side,” Bill had told the others last night as they sat around a campfire in the woods. He had gotten sick of doing nothing.

“How can we help?” had asked a man named Carlos Martinez.

“Do any of you remember our invasion of Iraq thirty years ago?” Bill had been thinking about this for some time.

“The first or second invasion?” Carlos Martinez was a bank clerk who loved hunting like Bill. Carlos was also a corporal in the Militia and a member of Bill’s church.

“The second invasion on our drive to Baghdad,” Bill had said.

“What about Baghdad?” Carlos was a thin man with bowed legs. In another life, Carlos had played basketball after church some Sundays with Stan and the others.

Last night, Bill had told them what Stan Higgins had told him before. “We sliced through the Iraqi Army back then. Nothing could stop our tanks and APCs.”

Carlos had watched him closely.

“The great fear on our side was that Iraqi commandos or soldiers would hit our supply columns coming behind the tanks. The supply vehicles were thin-skinned, mostly Army trucks. The Iraqis hit a few, but never in any number. Well, we have a similar situation here. The Chinese aren’t just roaring through to Anchorage in a few days, but there’s not much to stop those T-66s for long. Luckily for us, the terrain gets rougher the closer they come to Anchorage. My guess is it’s a mess right now, if I know Stan Higgins. The Chinese are grinding through. That means they must be burning up lots of supplies, particularly ammo.”

“What’s your point?”

“We’re still stuck behind enemy lines, but we’re alive and we have weapons and enough .50 caliber ammo to do something. I say we start hunting Chinese supply vehicles. We do what Saddam’s Iraqis should have done to us.”

“How do we stay alive at the same time?”

“By judiciously choosing our time of attack.”

“What do you say?” one of the other Militiamen had asked Carlos. “Do you think that’s a good idea? I want to get out of this mess. I don’t want to play the hero and end up dead.”

Carlos had scratched his head, nodding after a time. “I remember my schooling about the American Revolution. Most people didn’t do anything back then. They just wanted to stay alive, a perfectly good thing, I might add. But that kind of thinking wouldn’t have won America its freedom. Maybe one third of the population was for American Independence. Even less fought for their freedom. Well, I want to be one of those who fights for liberty. I want to be free. Tell us what to do, Pastor.”

“I don’t know,” the other Militiaman had said. “We’re just five men. What can five men do to change the tide of war?”

“Men defend their home,” Bill had said. “Alaska is our greater home and we must defend it.”

“I agree to that,” Carlos had said.

Bill Harris swallowed the last of his aspirin now as he lay on his belly at the edge of the woods. He counted six big Chinese Army trucks heading up the road. There were soldiers in the cabs. The nearest section of road was a football field away from their position. Soldotna was only a few miles away from here. If they attacked, the Chinese military would have to react. The five of them would be hunted men after this.

“It’s time,” said Bill, who crawled backward, a little deeper into the shade of the pines.

Wearing his duck-hunting camouflage gear, Carlos crawled beside Bill.

Nanook slowly climbed up from where he sat. “You need help?” He slurred as he spoke.

“Yes,” Bill told his friend. “You help me and Carlos.”

The three men picked up an M2 Browning machinegun. With the tripod, it weighed one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. They lugged it to the edge of the forest. The other two Militiamen wrestled a second M2 into position.

“We’re only going to take one of these weapons with us once we’re done attacking here,” Bill told the others. “So you don’t need to worry about saving ammo for your gun. Aim low, and try to fire in bursts. Start with the front vehicle and make it stop. Then work back to the next truck. If you see any soldiers jumping out, and especially if they’re firing at us, kill them. Any questions?”

No one had any.

Bill took a deep breath. The big trucks took a bend in the road. He could hear them shifting gears as the trucks began to climb. Soon they would be in range. Why did his stomach have to clench so tightly? He’d been in combat before. He was a veteran, but he sure didn’t feel like one. Did a man ever get used to this?

Nanook panted as he knelt beside the tripod-mounted M2. Carlos readied more ammo belts, ready to feed them into the death-dealing weapon. In World War One, machineguns like this had been the big killer.

“If we cut the supply lines their army will wither away,” Bill said softly. “We’re not cutting that line here, but we are going to make them bleed. If we can make them bleed enough, the Chinese attack will collapse.”

Carlos nodded.

Bill waited as the trucks kept grinding up the rise, and his stomach churned even more. He didn’t want to murder men, and this felt close to murder. But the Chinese had invaded Alaska. He had a right to defend his country. The Chinese had better tanks, while their side had little to face the T-66 monsters. Therefore, he had to fight with what he had, but against Chinese he could beat.

Taking a deep breath, aligning his sights on the lead truck, on the cab, Bill depressed one of the buttons with his thumb. The M2 Browning had a V-shaped “butterfly” trigger at the very rear of the weapon. With his thumb down, the M2 hammered out armor-piercing incendiary tracer bullets. It was a visible stream of death. Bill adjusted as he hosed the lead truck. Then the bullets began puncturing the cab. As they hit, the bullets smoked on contact as designed, helping Bill to know where he hit.

A second later, the heavy truck slewed across the highway. Then it skidded. Bill could hear it from here. A moment later, the truck flipped onto its side because the driver must have cranked the steering wheel too sharply. The driver must have panicked or maybe he’d been dying.

The other machine-gunner shouted wildly as crates flew out of the flipped truck.

Now the other trucks stopped. Cab doors flew opened and Chinese soldiers jumped down onto the highway. They gripped assault rifles. Some dropped onto their bellies and began firing. A few ran for the side of the highway.

Bill took his thumb off the trigger-button and swiveled the machinegun. He opened fire again, adjusting as the tracer rounds visibly shot over the enemies’ heads. Then running enemy soldiers began falling as he hit them. Those on their bellies must have seen the tracer rounds. They must have visibly followed them back to their source, because the enemy redirected his assault-rifle fire. Bill heard bullets hissing past him, while bark flew off nearby trees.

Bill began shouting as the .50 caliber weapon chugged away. It was better at long range than the assault rifles. Then an enemy bullet hit Bill in the chest. He tumbled backward and lay on the cold dirt breathing heavily.

“Bill!” shouted Carlos.

With a groan, Bill sat up and scrambled back to the machinegun. Looted durasteel body-armor had saved him from death. If the Chinese had fired .50 caliber bullets, the armor wouldn’t have saved him.

“You okay?” shouted Carlos.

For an answer, Bill gripped the machinegun and began firing again. He scowled fiercely, determined and shooting with bitter accuracy. It was grim work, and he began hitting Chinese lying on the road.

“You don’t get to win this time,” Bill whispered. Suddenly, his machinegun went click, click, click.

An enemy bullet whanged off a tree. Another shot hissed uncomfortably near. It made his chest throb where the enemy bullet had hit his armor.

Carlos opened the machinegun’s latch. He slid in the next belt and chambered the first round. “Ready!” Carlos shouted.

Bill began firing again. One of the trucks behind the remaining soldiers lying on the road exploded in an orange fireball. The M2’s incendiary rounds were made to ignite fuel tanks. Three of the nearest Chinese leaped to their feet.

Bill cut them down. They fell in such a ragged way that it almost didn’t seem human. One of the Chinese pitched his rifle away in his death throes. Another of them curled up on the road like a burning bug. This was terrible, but Bill had to do it. He knew he’d feel guilty later. It made him think of Stan’s dad killing men in Afghanistan. No wonder Colonel Higgins’ mind had turned on itself. This was sickening, but it was better than dying himself.

Then it was over. No more Chinese fired back. All the trucks had stopped, several of them were burning, and all of them had flat tires. Bill found himself blinking in shock at what he’d done.

“We did it,” Carlos said. The Militia corporal was shaking. “I helped you kill men.” Carlos was wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

Why do we feel so unclean?

Carlos twisted onto his hands and knees, puking on the ground.

Something about that woke Bill to their danger. “We have to go,” he said. “Now!” Then he realized he heard a chopper. It wasn’t right on top of them yet, but he was sure it was coming for them. “Go!” Bill roared at the other team.

“We still have ammo!” one of them shouted. “We’re taking it.”

“Okay,” Bill said. “Carlos?”

“I’m fine,” Carlos said, getting up and wiping his mouth. Then the corporal picked up the tripod mount, handing it to Bill. Afterward, the bank clerk wrestled the heavy machinegun onto his shoulder. It was a grim burden.

“Come on, Nanook,” Bill said softly, helping his friend to his feet. “We have to run into the woods.”

“We got them,” Nanook whispered. “We did it.”

“We’re fighting,” Bill said, as he picked a box of ammo. Nanook took another box before heading deeper into the pines. “We’re going to keep fighting,” said Bill. “Maybe if there are enough of us doing this, it will help us win the war.”

“We’ll win,” said Carlos. There was conviction in his voice.

“I hope you’re right,” said Bill. He knew Carlos, however. The man said that even when he was losing twenty to three playing one-on-one basketball. That was probably better than having a bitter pessimist along. The chopper sounded closer now, so Bill increased the pace, hoping Nanook could keep up with them. After what he’d just done, he knew he had to bring Nanook home or he could never preach again. He had to atone someway for all this dreadful killing.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

Lieutenant Chiang of the Eagle Teams squinted at a bomber roaring over his position. It had a maple leaf painted on the wing.

“The Canadians are here,” he told his First Rank.

Chiang and his First Rank held a sandbag strongpoint at the airport. Three times, they had fought off the Americans trying to retake the place. They’d used up all their RPGs and most of their assault-gun ammo. Some time ago, he had lost contact with the commander.

“We need to be re-supplied and reinforced,” the First Rank said.

Chiang nodded. “I don’t think Admiral Ling counted on the Canadians joining the fight.”

“Sir!” the First Rank said, interrupting. “Look over there.”

A Bradley clanked around a building. This one had Canadian markings.

“We need a RPG,” the First Rank said bitterly.

Chiang debated putting on his jetpack and flying one last time. He loved drifting in the air like a bird. Then the Bradley fired. Chiang and the First Rank ducked, but it didn’t matter. The shell hit and Lieutenant Chiang died defending the Anchorage airport.

PRCN SUNG

Admiral Ling stared at the table in his ready room. He had taken the international airport. Then the Canadians had decided to play the part of men. A costly air battle with them had kept him from reinforcing his war-winning move in Anchorage. Even now, Canadian and American soldiers reoccupied the airport.

If that wasn’t enough, American partisans harried his supply-lines. The partisans bled him of precious munitions. Worst of all, however, was the incompetence of the Chairman’s nephew, the Vice-Admiral.

“No!” said Ling. He struck a table and his eyes were red with anger and lack of sleep. “The imbecile, the buffoon! How dare he cheat me of my carefully wrought victory. I have paid with precious Chinese blood for this chance to roar our troops to Anchorage. Now this opportunity to quickly advance is being snatched out of my hands.”

“Please, Admiral, I ask you to calm down,” Commodore Yen said.

“How can I calm down when that fool nephew of the Chairman has thrown my carefully calculated plans into disarray?”

“You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Do you deny that his imbecility has hopelessly entangled our two commands?”

“He is eager for the laurels—”

“I will not listen to you defend him!” Ling shouted. “He has cost me a quick victory. Our brigades are now hopelessly entangled on Highway One. Everything has been brought to a standstill. Worse, the Canadians have infused the Americans with badly needed planes and reinforcements. It gave the Americans time to deal with the Eagle Teams in Anchorage. No doubt, they will now race reinforcements to their shattered troops clinging to the highway.”

“The Canadians were a surprise. There was nothing we could do about them, sir. I also realize the Vice-Admiral acted precipitously, but you dare not relieve him of duty.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Ling asked.

Commodore Yen sat down.

Ling turned away. He had read the reports. A huge traffic jam now ensnarled the lead brigades of the two separate commands. It would take days to sort it out. During those days, the Americans could reestablish another strong defensive line. It would give them that much more time to receive reinforcements and supplies from Fairbanks. At least that much had worked. The Eagle Teams, while they had lived, had demolished much of the Anchorage airport.

“Sir, what about these partisans destroying our supplies?” asked Yen. “They are starting to become a problem.”

“The Americans are lice,” muttered Ling, “gun-carrying lice. I never knew a land could possess so many civilian weapons. It will make our occupation that much harder.”

“Perhaps the White Tiger Commandoes could deal with these rear-area partisans.”

Ling’s breathing lessened. At last, the admiral nodded. “Yes, we must continue fighting. We must battle it out to the end because the Vice-Admiral threw his brigades after the Americans. If only the man could listen to orders.”

“The time for vengeance will come, sir.”

Ling slammed his fist on the table. “I don’t care about vengeance. I care about winning this war. We must win! We must win soon. Time runs against us.”

“We shall win, sir. You broke the Americans once. You shattered their defenses. You will do so again.”

Admiral Ling nodded. “Let us hope you are right.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna Chen settled into her chair in White House Bunker Number Five. She wore her hair down, a conservative dress and make-up. She wore heels, but not too high. With her legs crossed, she listened to the others. Ever since she’d given the President the okay to use a nuclear-tipped torpedo on an Arctic supply dump, he had desired her opinion more often. Fortunately, the U.S. military had refrained from using more nuclear weapons.

“Sir,” said the Defense Secretary, “I’m against making this move now.”

“I have to agree with him, Mr. President,” the Secretary of State said.

President Clark nodded solemnly, with his hands folded on the table. “Ms. Chen, what do you think?”

“What do your admirals say, Mr. President?” Anna asked.

Clark glanced at General Alan.

“Half agree that the Chinese Carrier Fleet has taken heavy air losses during the campaign,” General Alan said. “The Canadians have aided us at a most critical moment. The two American carrier-wings could possibly slip in and catch the invasion fleet by surprise, doing severe damage. The other admirals point out that the two Atlantic carriers are almost to Central America on the Pacific side. Together, our four carriers could well force the seven Chinese carriers away from Alaska. They suggest that would win us the war.”

“You know what the admirals think, sir,” Anna told the President. “What do your generals say about Anchorage?”

“They’ve never changed their tune,” the Defense Secretary said, interrupting. “The generals want the Navy to bail them out of a bad situation. The generals keep screaming they need more air cover to do anything. Thanks to the Canadians, Anchorage is still in American hands. Mr. President,” the Defense Secretary said with urgency. “We must hold in Anchorage with what we have before we throw away the carriers that could win us everything.”

“The Chinese naval infantry keep advancing, breaking through our defenses,” said Clark. “Soon, the Chinese will be in Anchorage’s suburbs. We have to stop them.”

“Soldiers always cry for more aid,” Colin Green said. “I suggest you wait out events until they turn in our favor just as happened with the Prime Minister.”

“I don’t agree,” Anna said. Colin Green shot her a venomous glance. She ignored it.

“Do you see something the rest of us are missing?” Clark asked her.

“Sir,” the Defense Secretary said. “Ms. Chen knows her Chinese and possibly the Chairman’s mindset, but I do not think she is an expert on military matters.”

“She’s brought us luck,” said Clark. “The Chinese ice-mobile formations haven’t attacked our North Slope. I think we’re winning there. We’ve frightened them by our resolve. Are you saying,” the President asked Anna, “that we can frighten the Chinese now by attacking their fleet?”

“The air war seems like the critical factor, Mr. President,” Anna said. She’d heard one of the air chiefs tell the President that over the speakerphone. “We need more fighters now so the Chinese can’t dominate the skies over the battlefield. Well, the Navy has more fighters. Send them into battle at this decisive moment, before the Chinese break into Anchorage or take the airport a second time. I’ve heard everyone say that once Anchorage falls, South Central Alaska falls. If South Central Alaska falls, the State falls. This could be the defining moment of the battle.”

“You don’t know that,” the Defense Secretary said.

“That the Chinese are closing in on Anchorage tells me that I do,” Anna said, surprised at her boldness.

“Yes!” Clark said, standing. He struck the table with his knuckles. “Anna Chen is our Chinese expert. She gave me excellent advice concerning the nuclear weapon under the polar ice.”

“If you’ll recall, Mr. President,” the Defense Secretary said, “I’ve always suggested we go nuclear.”

“Yes, you did say that,” Clark admitted, frowning now.

“If you’ve made your decision, sir,” General Alan said, “I’d like to call the Navy and tell them to proceed.”

Clark blinked at Anna Chen. Then the President told General Alan, “Give them the go-head.”

MUKDEN, P.R.C.

Captain Han was a wreck. The prolonged exposure to frontal assaults with remote-controlled Marauders—and the accompanying ‘death-shocks’—had caused a decline in the captain’s performance and mental health. His superiors had taken notice and sent him to a nexus psychiatrist.

“You must harden your resolve,” the psychiatrist now told him. The stern major wore a compelling black uniform, which tightly conformed to her figure. She had particularly large breasts, which strained at the buttons of her uniform.

“The shocks—” Han said.

“No!” the psychiatrist said, sitting up, frowning and tapping the computer-slate which she held in her lap. “You are not here to complain against stated procedures. You are here for me to cure you of your maladjustments.”

“…the shocks cause me to fear,” said Han. As much as he preferred Japanese schoolgirls, the major intrigued him.

“What did I just say, Captain?” the major asked.

Han wasn’t sure what she’d said, but he wanted her to frown again.

“Captain Han, do I have your attention?”

He stood at parade rest as she sat in a chair beside him. Her office contained many diplomas hanging from the walls, as well as pictures of her with highly-ranked Party officials and officers. There were also many brightly-colored geometric shapes in the room on tables and stands.

Han began to unbutton his jacket as he imagined her—

“Captain Han,” she said, snapping her fingers.

Han blinked in surprise at his open jacket. What had he been doing?

With a computer-stylus, she jotted on her slate, writing quickly.

“What are you writing about me?” he asked, wanting to look. She held her slate so he couldn’t see.

“That is no concern of yours,” she said. She clicked the stylus onto the slate, setting it on her nylon-covered knees. “You are a clever man, a noted computer specialist. Surely, you must understand the necessity of the simulated shocks as you remote-control military vehicles from your pit.”

“Yes. It’s been explained to me many times.”

“Then I fail to understand—”

“What if you were shocked every time you failed your appointed task?” Han asked.

Her back stiffened, and she spoke with a nasal quality. “I’m not the one under interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” asked Han, alarmed for the first time. He’d thought this was a mental-health reevaluation. An interrogation could bring serious demerits to his military profile.

She gave him a shark-like smile and nodded primly. “Finally, I have your attention. That is an improvement. Now listen closely, Captain. The authorities have created a new penal remote-control center where they will double the intensity of the death-shocks.”

“But that’s hideous!” cried Han.

“Ah,” she said, picking up the stylus. “Was that a subversive comment against the State?”

“What?” asked Han. “No, no.”

“What did you mean then with your objection?” she asked, with the stylus poised.

Han thought furiously. “I-I thought you were here to help me.”

“I am,” she said. “I am here to help you regain your martial fervor for the honor of Chinese conquest. Your superiors feel you have become self-absorbed and spend far too much time worrying about your physical and mental well-being. What you need to remember, Captain, is that China not only possesses the oldest culture on the planet, but the most superior culture as well. You are part of that culture, not an individualized person as the enemy suggests. You are united into a powerful whole and must always think of China’s good before you agonize over your own petty problems.”

“I totally agree with you,” Han said.

She shook her head. “You do not say that with true zeal. In fact, your words just now sounded forced, as if you spoke to guard yourself from further punishment.”

Han forced urgency into his words even as he remained at parade rest with his hands behind his back. “I love China.”

“Do you really, Captain Han, or do you just say that to avoid transfer to the new penal remote-controlling unit?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I love my country more than anything else in the world.”

“Do you love China more than your own miserable creature comforts?”

“I do, I do,” Han said.

“I see,” she said, studying him. “Would you give up your rank for China’s greater glory?”

“Yes,” said Han, wondering if they were going to kick him out of the Space Service. At this point, that might be a good thing.

Her eyes narrowed. “Your profile states quite clearly,” she said, glancing at her slate, “that you are very proud of your status in the Chinese Space Service.”

“It is the greatest achievement of my life,” said Han.

“Yet for the love of China, you would willingly give it up?”

“Utterly,” said Han.

The tiniest of smiles tugged at the corner of her lipstick-painted lips. “Then I must tell you this, Captain Han. And I want you to listen most closely. Are you listening?”

He nodded fervently, beginning to hate her. He should strip off her nylons and flip up her skirt, put her over his knees and spank her until she begged him to stop.

She snapped her fingers. “What is that look in your eyes?” she asked. “They glaze over as I speak to you. Are you drugged, Captain Han?”

“I’ve worked hard for China’s glory,” he said quietly, trying to pump patriotism into his words. What was wrong with him? Why did he keep sinking into his sexual fantasies? Was it a side-effect of the many dosages of S-15 they kept injecting into him? “It has been my privilege to strive for China’s honor, yet I’ve begun to wonder lately if I’ve overworked myself. I might no longer be able to function with full efficiency. Perhaps I must decline returning to the remote—”

The major laughed. “That is a good try, Captain. But you have apparently forgotten that I am a psychiatrist. I can see through your pathetic attempt to dodge the death-shocks. You may love China, but you love your own well-being far too much. That is clear. Now you may avoid further death-shocks by admitting to me that you’re a coward. Then I will request the enforcing arm of the remote-controllers to make an example of you. We psychiatrists designed the shocks to stimulate a soldier’s battlefield efforts. We wanted you remote-controllers to perform your tasks with zeal. We wanted you to act with a soldier’s kill-or-die fervor.”

“But I’ve been part of the suicide assaults!” cried Han. “Your reasoning and the shocks are unjust.”

“Stop right there or face the enforcement arm,” the major said coldly. “Your kind disgusts me.” She shook her head. “I can hardly force myself to give you another chance. Still, I follow my orders instead of indulging in my desire, which is to see a worm like you punished to the full extent of the military penal code. However, because I am here to give you a choice, I will still allow you to make one. Tell me which you prefer: enforcement or the chance to win even more glory by returning to your remote-controlling station?”

“Are there others like me?” asked Han. “Men who are tiring of the shocks?”

Her features tightened. “That is privileged information, Captain. Now you must give me your choice.”

Han almost turned and slapped her face, and there was no telling what he would have done next. Maybe he would have raped her here in the office. He’d never forget the experience. His shoulders slumped. The problem was that East Lightning would torture him a long time if he did that. Han hung his head. He nodded submissively.

“I would like to return to service,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Very well,” she said. “Then I am required to inform you of a surprising development. My superiors believe this information will heighten your enthusiasm for combat, although after speaking to you I have my doubts. Know, Captain Han, that you have achieved one of the highest kill-rates. If by the end of the conflict, you have achieved the highest kill ratio, you will be promoted to major.”

“Oh,” he said. Then he realized she might mark him down for lack of enthusiasm. He forced a smile. “I am delighted to hear this. I will perform to the satisfaction of the Space Service.”

“Hmm,” she said, as she tapped her computer-stylus against her slate. “This is against my better judgment, but my superiors are interested in knowing if you would rather return to controlling Marauders or go back to controlling recon drones. We have found that it is wiser for the remote-controllers to gain proficiency in one area rather than spreading his talents. Because you are rated an expert at each, you now have this choice. The greater need, however, is for good Marauder controllers.”

“I love China with all my heart,” said Han, “but I would prefer the recon drones. They are more like the space vehicles I was trained to fly.”

The major frowned, making notes on the slate. “Very well, Captain Han, you have made your choice. I’m not surprised you ran back to controlling recon drones. Because of that, I am recommending that you be watched even more strictly than before.”

That sounded ominous, and Han feared for his future, but he wasn’t going to change his decision. He dreaded another death-shock and he would do just about anything to avoid receiving it.

***

Nine hours later, he was back in the Nexus Center. They had honored his request, and he now controlled a fleet drone from a pit. The two former techs continued to work with him.

Han wore a VR helmet and twitch gloves. His long-endurance drone was high in the air, taking the place of a regular recon satellite. This close to America, such recon satellites were easy targets for the North American ABM Lasers. Because of that, the invasion fleet had come to rely on the high-flying drones for advanced reconnaissance in the outer zones.

The techs had explained it to Han so he understood the importance of his mission. There was growing evidence the Americans would stab at the fleet. Therefore, Admiral Ling had moved his ships and spread out his recon net. The techs had explained to Han the various dangers. The Americans had several weapon’s platforms to use against the fleet, particularly against the seven supercarriers. First, were aircraft, whether carrier-launched or land-based. Next were cruise missiles, which were a form of aircraft electronically controlled by a battle-computer. The same defensive basics would protect the fleet from both aircraft and cruise missiles. There were also ASBM-attacks and submarine assaults via cruise missiles or torpedoes.

Han’s role as a remote-controller of a recon drone was as an early-warning tripwire against aircraft and cruise missiles. The Navy had another means for spotting torpedo-launching subs.

The Chinese carriers had moved well away from the Kenai Peninsula. The admiral had taken his ships farther south and westward, giving the fleet a greater cushion. Many of the naval strike-craft battling for Alaskan air superiority used airbases behind the present Chinese line-of-advance.

The seven carriers had three protective zones. The first was the primary zone. It extended forty to fifty kilometers from the carriers and their escorts. Ship-borne sensors monitored this zone. Electronic weapons defended the carriers. There were jetfighters, surface-to-air missiles, guns and jammers to blind cruise-missile homing systems. Helicopters and ships also gave off carrier-like signals to try to fool the enemy weapons into firing at them instead of the more critical aircraft carriers.

Carrier-launched patrol-craft monitored the middle zone. The carriers’ fighters were the chief defenders here. However, if given enough warning time, ships would attempt to maneuver into position, interposing themselves between the enemy and the carriers. Those defensive ships would then use primary zone weapons and tactics to defeat the enemy.

The last and largest zone was the outer one. It extended seven hundred kilometers and beyond. Satellites, land-based patrol-craft and stationary sensor-systems gave advanced warning. In lieu of satellites, long-endurance, high-flying drones had taken their place. The techs had informed Han that the outer zone was probably the most important. It gave the fleet needed warning time in order to launch attack-craft against cruise-missile launchers (ships or submarines) and against enemy carriers before the enemy got into an attack position. It also gave warning time to send defensive ships into position between the enemy and the precious carriers.

Han had listened to their explanations, given the correct responses and entered the pit. The moment he donned the VR helmet, however, he silently vowed to himself that he would avoid all death-shocks.

They care nothing about me. I must save myself or lose my sanity as they shock me into imbecility.

What did he owe China anyway, if China did nothing to look after him? Was he supposed to give up everything he valued for a concept?

No!

It was ludicrous for anyone to think he would. So what if he was Chinese? Did that mean he let other Chinese shock him? He wasn’t crazy, but they were making him so. Yes, he could understand the reasoning behind the shocks. Maybe mild ones would help. But they had gone too far. The simulation of death….

They’re killing me.

Well, he would no longer have any part of it. If they were going to threaten him…he’d have to watch out for himself, that’s all.

Han sat in the Mukden pit, in the padded chair, twitching his gloves. He saw things from the drone’s perspective—far below was the Pacific Ocean. There were wispy clouds and way down he spied the choppy water. Even though he was in the pit, he seemed to soar in the heavens and let himself relax.

From time to time, he shifted and rerouted certain key monitoring systems aboard the drone. Nothing must alert the watching techs, certainly not active radar readings. If he used the drone’s radar to spot something deadly, the Americans would know. If the Americans knew, they would launch missiles at him. If the missiles destroyed the drone, he would receive the death-shock. Therefore, the reasoning was obvious. He must remain quietly unaware of anything. That meant shutting off passive systems as well. For if the techs saw anything strange on their boards, they would force him to turn on the active radar.

With great computer cunning, Han put a repeater pattern before his active systems, and then he shut them down. The techs would never suspect. Later, a few minutes before he came out of the pit, he would reactive the systems.

“It is quiet today,” a tech said some time later.

“That makes me suspicious,” said Han.

“Our boards show nothing unwarranted. Why are you suspicious?”

“Are you kidding?” asked Han. “I spoke with the psychiatrist. She showed me why it is important I do my task no matter how painful it might be to me.”

“That is a wise attitude, Captain. The talk did you good.”

“I realize now how important my task is,” Han said.

“Good. Now less talk and give more attention to detail.”

“I agree,” said Han, who within his helmet smiled hugely to himself.

An hour later, Captain Han spied movement far below the drone. It made his heart race. He quickly changed his flight pattern and focused his cameras on a different part of the grid.

“Are you well, Captain?” a tech asked. “Your health monitor shows that your heart-rate has increased.”

“That is interesting,” said Han.

“I see nothing on the boards,” the other tech said.

“What frightened you, Captain?”

“A stray thought concerning my personal life,” Han said. “It is nothing.”

“Keep your mind focused, Captain. Your session ends in another two hours. Worry about your personal life then.”

“Yes, sir,” said Han.

“Humph,” said the tech. “He’s acting strangely.”

The other tech didn’t say anything to that, so Han no longer worried. He had set up a visual pattern for himself and for the techs on their boards. In other words, he’d blinded the recon drone. If his heart rate would give him away, he’d be content to look at nothing so that didn’t happen. Just as long as no machine death-shocked him anymore. Then he could begin to relax and regain his normal cheery composure.

Thirty-five minutes later, an alarm went off in the chamber. It shook Han awake from his semi-slumber. He blinked groggily in his helmet as the techs shouted at each other.

“Captain Han! Captain Han!” one of them shouted at him. “Check your systems. Are they active?”

“Yes, yes,” said Han, “of course they are.” Frightened, he began to reengage each of the systems. Perhaps he was too sleepy. He didn’t do it with as much skill as he’d demonstrated when de-activating them.

“What are you doing?” cried a tech.

“What’s the matter anyway?” asked Han, who glove-twitched furiously. “Why all the alarm?”

There was silence from the techs as Han began to twitch with greater awareness.

“What’s this, Captain?” a tech shouted. “You just switched one of the drone’s settings.”

“You must be mistaken,” said Han.

“He’s turning the systems on and off,” the other tech said in wonder.

At that moment, there was loud banging, like a door striking a wall. Feet pounded on the chamber’s floor and equipment clattered against what sounded like body-armor. Thoroughly frightened, Han tore off his helmet. An enforcer-lieutenant entered the room and pointed a gun at him, with three other scary-looking sergeants doing the same thing.

“What’s the matter?” cried Han.

“Sabotage!” shouted the lieutenant, his muscular face a blotchy red color.

Han looked up at the bewildered techs.

“The American carriers used your recon corridor!” the lieutenant shouted. “Their aircraft are attacking our carriers as we speak! Captain Han, you are under arrest as a CIA spy. So are you two! You filthy traitors sicken me.”

“No, no!” shouted the shorter tech. “It was all Captain Han’s fault. Without our knowledge, he de-activated his drone’s sensors.” The man pointed at Han down in the pit.

The lieutenant stepped up to the tech. With his gun-holding hand, he smashed the man across the forehead. The tech crashed to the floor, moaning and clutching his bleeding head.

“You’re a nest of traitors without even the manhood to stick together!” the lieutenant snarled. “You all sicken me.” He waved his gun. “Shackle them. We’re going to take them down to interrogation and find out exactly how and why this treachery occurred. I promise you that.”

It was then that Captain Han began to shout incoherently, cursing the lieutenant, China and most of all the Space Service.

THE GULF OF ALASKA

America Strikes Back!

(Reuters) At a terrible loss of pilots and aircraft, the United States Navy struck at the Chinese Invasion Fleet yesterday. It was reminiscent of the Battle of Midway, as the gods of war must have blessed the bold. The two air wings went in low, flying a mere fifty feet above the Pacific Ocean. They slipped through the outer Chinese radar-net and caught the middle defense-zone ships asleep. Those ships were seventy kilometers from the carriers. Our aircraft sank the two cruisers, a helicopter-carrier and four destroyers.

That opened the way through the Chinese air defense for a mass barrage of American cruise missiles. Those missiles helped give America its greatest victory thus far in the war.

The air-battle in the Chinese primary zone was a different affair. The massed might of seven supercarriers faced the two American air-wings. Not since World War Two against the Japanese has such an aerial duel taken place in the Pacific Ocean. Chinese pilots, EW and missiles proved a tough match for our brave airmen. American planes were lost at an estimated rate of two-to-one Chinese aircraft. Despite such losses, the remaining attackers bravely zeroed in on the big supercarriers.

Captain Danny Wright came in low, arming his Gladius-6 air-to-ship missile. With a shudder, the ship-killing missile dropped from his underbelly and ignited. The short flight-time and wave-top attack meant the Gladius-6 burrowed deep into the Chinese carrier. The explosion was among the three direct hits recorded by our pilots, and a fourth strike sinking a non-carrier vessel. As the last Navy pilots streaked for Alaska, with Captain Danny Wright among them, the cruise missiles arrived. They caught the Chinese pilots landing on their carriers to rearm and refuel. Three more hits were recorded, with the sinking of the Chinese supercarriers Cho En Li and Mao Zedong. Like our own carriers, the Chinese flattops can often sustain two or even three hits before sinking. The remaining carriers limped away, several of them damaged. The Chinese Invasion Fleet took a pounding in a heroic display of U.S. Navy courage and determination.

Unfortunately, the two U.S. Navy carriers launching the brave attack were hit by a brutal Chinese counter-strike. After a long battle with damage-control, the two U.S. carriers sank, along with the escorting destroyers and cruisers. It was a bitter blow, but the Navy gave a shot to the chin against the Chinese invaders.

The fight continues, but now the Chinese know that neither the Navy, the Army, the Marines nor the incredible Alaskan National Guard will surrender. It is a fight to the finish, and the Chinese will learn their lesson as the Japanese and the Germans learned it long ago. You can hit America by surprise and get in several good blows, usually by underhanded means. But in the end, America will arise victorious as the last nation standing.

NINILCHIK, ALASKA

Lu Po, the hero of the San Francisco raid, had returned to where he and his White Tiger Commandos had originally landed in Alaska. It was a cold day, with the wind blowing and snow swirling.

Rumors had already made the rounds that Admiral Ling was angry. The Americans had struck at the fleet, sinking two carriers. Many Chinese air-superiority fighters had also crashed into the ocean. Others were heavily damaged. Perhaps as bad, Lu had heard that a fuel tanker had gone up in flames during the attack, as had two munitions vessels. That had increased nervousness in High Command about the continued American harassment-attacks on the Kenai supply lines.

Suppress the partisans with vigor. That order had popped up on Lu’s email yesterday.

In his snow-camouflaged combat suit, Lu presently stood under evergreens near the road as several of his Commandos threw ropes over the lowest and heaviest branches. Four Americans knelt nearby, two of them teenage boys. There was a woman among them, the reason his men were only using three ropes. His team would take the woman to a detention center.

Lu glanced at the Americans on their knees in the snow. One was much older, the father likely. Yes, one of the boys and the girl resembled the old man. The father whispered earnestly to the three youngsters. The smallest had tears in his eyes. He was the weakling of the group. The older teenager glared at the White Tigers. That one had fire. All of them, including the woman, had their hands tied behind their backs. These four were partisans, formerly armed with civilian weapons. There had been a Colt .45, a Winchester lever-action and two Remington shotguns. Lu had been amazed at the amount of ammunition each of the Americans had been carrying.

The four had poured sugar into several trucks and shot at Chinese soldiers. There had been far too much sabotage lately. Even before the American air strike on the fleet, High Command had become concerned, especially with the continued attack on supply dumps and trucks.

That is why they called for us. The White Tigers can deal with any situation.

Even better, partisan-hunting behind the front meant he didn’t have to face professional soldiers but these winter warriors. Look, the smaller boy was crying aloud as his tears dripped to the snow. The boy and the father should have thought of that before they dared pick up rifles against the occupation.

Lu filled his lungs with cold air. He saw that everything was ready, so Lu Po snapped his fingers.

White Tigers lifted the three males to their feet and chased them with bayonets to the ropes. The youngest screamed, and struggled to free hands. The father spoke even more urgently to that one.

“It’s too late for that,” Lu said, as he strode to them.

Several White Tigers threw nooses around the three necks.

“Don’t hang my little brother!” the oldest teenager shouted.

Lu snapped his fingers.

White Tigers pulled, hoisting the three gurgling partisans into the air as their legs kicked.

The red-haired woman, with tears streaking down her cheeks, watched in horror. Then she stared at the White Tigers staring at her.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” she whispered.

Before Lu could answer, his belt-computer beeped. He unclipped it and checked his messages. There was another, more dangerous partisan band fifty kilometers from here. Command wanted his White Tigers to take care of it. There were helicopters coming to pick them up, but no one to take the woman to a detention center.

Lu clipped the small device back to his belt and regarded the woman. “You will have your wish,” he said.

She stared at him dumbly.

“Hang her,” said Lu. “We have bigger prey to hunt. Hurry, we must leave at once.”

STERLING, ALASKA

Rubbing his arms in a vain effort to get warm, Militia Sergeant Bill Harris looked at his ragged, ill-fed band. He had thirteen shivering men huddled under cold pines in the snow with him. Several coughed all the time and had runny noses and sad eyes. They’d been on the run in the wilds for too long and with too little food. Some wore duck-hunting camouflage gear like him, meaning they were also Militiamen. One was a pilot who had survived his ejection. He’d broken bones in his left hand and wore a heavy, dirty wrap over it. Three were National Guardsmen. The interesting and most fit member was an old hunter. They had been eating his dwindling stocks of freeze-dried food for the past few days. Without the old hunter’s cunning, they would have died of exposure or been captured by patrolling Chinese.

“Build a fire,” the old hunter said.

The pilot shook his head. Despite his broken hand, he was an aggressive young man. “We can take a little cold, but if the Chinese see us warming ourselves by a fire we’re dead.”

“I don’t like them hanging people either,” the old hunter said. “But we’re not going to do much more if we’re all sick. We need to be warm for a while and regroup.”

“Make the fire,” Bill told the old hunter. He was sick of shivering, and he was dead tired. Tramping through the snow in the wilds, with Chinese chasing them—it amazed him how the tiredness sank into his bones. It gave him a new appreciation for David when King Saul had chased him through the deserts of Israel. The next time he gave a sermon on those passages, he would add these experiences to make the Bible come to life for his parishioners.

“I still don’t understand who put you in charge,” the pilot said.

“Bill is a sergeant,” Carlos said from where he squatted.

“Yeah?” the pilot said. “Well, I’m a captain.”

“Bill’s led the group successfully,” Carlos said. “We’ve destroyed thirteen trucks full of supplies. And he rigged the perfect bobby-trap with Chinese artillery shells, blowing up two IFVs and their naval infantry. What have you done again?”

“I got myself shot down because it was three against one,” the pilot said angrily. “Look, I don’t want to hang from the trees. If we do anymore now, they’re sure to send the patrols after us into the woods, where we’ll probably freeze to death.”

Bill had seen Americans hanging from trees. It had shocked him even more than the invasion itself. The dangling corpse had been in plain sight along the highway. He’d worked near and had read the placard around the neck. In block letters the Chinese had written, ANY PARTISAN CAUGHT WITH A WEAPON WILL HANG. He had stared at those letters, thinking about having his arms tied behind his back and a rope looped around his neck. Something dark had entered his soul then. The Chinese wanted to play rough. He’d nodded. He would play rough all right.

“If the Chinese are hanging people,” Bill now told the others, “it means they’re desperate. It means the attacks behind enemy lines are taking a toll. I say we increase that toll.”

“What are you suggesting?” the pilot said. “Have you seen the latest convoys? They’re guarded by infantry fighting vehicles.”

“That’s right!” said Bill. “That’s another sign we’re hurting them. They’re pulling back combat vehicles from the fight to make sure they get enough supplies to the front. Now we have to hit them even harder.”

“I hope you’re not talking about slipping into the big supply dump near Sterling,” the old hunter said. He clicked a lighter, touching the flame to wadded paper crumpled under a teepee of broken sticks.

“They’ve seen that supply depot,” the pilot said, jerking a thumb at the National Guardsmen. “They said it’s guarded pretty tight.”

“The smart thing is to stick with what works,” Bill said. “I don’t want to get greedy and try to swallow too much. The idea is to nibble them like mice.”

“That’s great,” the pilot said. “Mice.”

Bill sympathized with the young man. Chinese tanks were better than American ones, just as Chinese aircraft were better than American fighters. It must be a terrible feeling to be shot down behind enemy lines. He hated the fact that he’d been left behind. Sometimes he just wanted to pack it in and try to walk back to Anchorage. Remembering that hanging corpse wouldn’t let him do that.

“Mice can burn down a house by nibbling enough electric wire-lining,” Bill told the pilot.

“And how does that apply to us?” the pilot asked.

“It should be obvious.”

“What should we attack next?” asked the old hunter.

Bill squatted beside the crackling sticks. He held his stiff fingers before the flames. Even the trickle of heat felt wonderful, like hope. How much longer could they do this? He was out of aspirin now. He wanted that almost as much he wanted more food. Soon, they would be out of food, too, and their .50 caliber ammo was running low. They had plenty of shotgun shells and .30-06 cartridges. He forced a grin onto his tired face. These men needed hope. The old hunter had been right. They needed this fire.

“I’ve been thinking of a spot, said Bill, as he dug out a worn map. “We’ll set up the M2s there and wait for a rich target like Robin Hood and his merry men.”

“So now we’re archers?” asked the pilot, squatting beside him and holding out his good hand to the flames. He stared at Bill. “I wish you’d make up your mind. Mice, men wearing tights, I need to get back to our side and see if I can get another fighter.”

Their side, Bill nodded. It would be nice to go home. It would be glorious. But right now, he was David on the run from Saul. This was the hard time when he had to prove himself.

“Build up that fire,” Bill said. “Then let’s get everyone around it. We have some hard planning to do.”

GIRDWOOD, ALASKA

Stan’s tank rattled-clanked-squealed its way along the road as it towed another Abrams. The towing was hard on his tank, but he couldn’t leave this one behind and there was no other way to move it. It gave him three M1A2s, the last of their heavy armor.

Standing in the hatch, Stan could see the line of American soldiers marching wearily from Girdwood. On the other side of the town came flashes of red. A few big guns spoke, slowing the Chinese. General Sims had given the order. This was the last retreat to the forward defenses in Anchorage’s city limits.

It had been a long series of battles since the Junction of Highways One and Nine. Stan was sick of retreating. His eyelids drooped. He yawned. He badly needed sleep. Everyone did. The soldiers marching to Anchorage…even now one stumbled and slumped on the snow. The man didn’t move. No one helped him. Few had the strength to do more than march.

“We’re not going to hold the city with soldiers like that,” said Jose, his head sticking out of the gunner’s hatch.

Stan was too tired to reply. He was sick of retreating and he was sick of seeing men die. He just wanted this to end. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a year, maybe two.

The big guns boomed again, flashes of red. It was all that was holding the enemy back.

PRCN SUNG

For the first time in thirty-four years, Admiral Ling was feeling seasick. He sat at a table in the operations room of his carrier. He could no longer study the detailed map of the Kenai Peninsula. Shoved by the raging sea, the ship and therefore this room violently tilted back and forth.

“We must move the fleet out of this,” Commodore Yen said beside him.

Ling felt his age today. Yen looked worse.

An Arctic storm howled upon his fleet, an ice age blizzard with sleet, hail and near hurricane-force winds. Everyone in here could hear the hail striking outside, and everyone in the operations center felt the monstrous waves heaving the carrier in giant swells.

“What will this do to our drive on Anchorage?” asked Ling. He’d been worrying about this ever since the fleet’s weathermen had told him about the direction of the approaching storm.

“Ships can’t attack in this kind of weather,” said Yen. “I don’t know about soldiers.”

Admiral Ling shook his head. “We’re close to victory. After weeks of fighting and bloodletting, we’re near our objective. Once we have Anchorage and its airport and the surrounding towns—”

“And the Anchorage storage tanks,” said Commodore Yen.

“And those as well,” said Ling, “if the Americans don’t destroy them first.”

“What then, sir? What if the Americans blow those storage tanks as they did in Seward?”

“I am not so troubled by that now. Once we break into Anchorage, we have the victory. Then our superior numbers can finally spread out to attack the Americans all at once and at many different points. Then at the Navy’s leisure, we can sweep the mines from Cook Inlet and ferry our supplies directly into the city. Once we have metropolitan Anchorage, the Chairman will understand that victory is ours. He will release the rest of the fuel tankers.”

Commodore Yen nodded thoughtfully as he studied the OBS.

Admiral Ling did likewise. It had been a bitter fight through the Kenai Peninsula. The battle for Portage had been extremely difficult. Now the naval infantry fought through Girdwood. Afterward, would begin the direct assault upon Anchorage, the great and glittering prize of the campaign.

The nine naval infantry brigades used in the invasion, each twice as large as an American brigade, had taken losses to get to this place. However, China had men, far too many men. Ling didn’t like losing so many soldiers, but that wasn’t his great fear. The fuel supply had approached a critical situation. The constant pinprick partisan attacks had made things even worse. The planners should have foreseen that, given the American love affair with guns. According to his charts, the patrols and especially the White Tigers had killed countless partisans and destroyed vast quantities of civilian weapons. Yet these Alaskans kept popping out of their woods and were always well-armed. It had become so bad that his commanders used combat vehicles to patrol the main supply route of the Number One Highway. The fuel used in the patrolling vehicles and helicopters had eaten into the campaign’s remaining stocks.

Admiral Ling shook his head. The Kenai Peninsula was mostly mountains and pines, endless trees, making a thousand ambush sites. With everything taken together, his ground forces only had several more days of fuel while operating at full combat capacity. Every ounce of that fuel needed to get to the front so the ground commanders could keep the pressure on the battered Americans and smash through Anchorage. Even if the Americans blew the vast storage complexes, the naval soldiers could use the airport and receive fuel via air-tankers, maybe even straight from China.

The ground commanders at the front kept reporting that victory was in their grasp. Their battle-weary soldiers saw Anchorage now. The soldiers saw the fantastic mountains beyond and realized in this amphitheater there was a chance to regroup and redeploy. Once the city was in their grasp, every soldier realized that China could pour Army formations into Alaska, making it impossible for the Americans to think of ever trying to drive them out. The seen prize urged on the tired brigades and their soldiers. All the expended sweat, tears and blood would have meaning with the conclusion of this final push that would give them victory.

Tall Commodore Yen studied the OBS beside Ling. Yen stirred, adjusting his uniform as if he was before yet another TV camera. The man acted as if the political officers were recording every one of his actions and pronouncements for review. “The heart of the storm will hit our formations. Will that hurt our chances for victory?”

Another pang of worry filled Ling. To have come so far—they could not fail now. It was inconceivable. He shook his head. “Whatever this storm does to our soldiers, it will also do to the enemy.”

“If it halts the fighting, it will give the Americans time to rest. You’ve read the reports, sir. Some of our soldiers have stormed the latest trenches and found every American fast asleep. The enemy desperately needs a respite, and now it looks as if this storm will give it to them.”

With his single hand, Admiral Ling rubbed his forehead. For weeks, his ground commanders had used meat-grinder tactics to attrition the Americans, exchanging gallons of Chinese blood for American blood. Now a thin crust of Americans kept him out of Anchorage. The Americans fed the fight by airlifting reinforcements to Fairbanks and sending the troops by rail to Anchorage. Yet his naval infantry needed rest, too. The Chinese brigades had relentlessly flung themselves against the scrambling Americans. If it wasn’t for the bad fuel situation….

“We will move the fleet,” said Ling. “Our ships can’t take much more of this pounding, and we’re only at the fringe of the storm. Before the storm descends on our ground forces and afterward, we will send every fuel truck to the front for a final push. Radio the ground commanders. Tell them to attack and to maneuver for the best advantage. I can feel the victory, Commodore. Tell them that after they have done all these things, that they are to smash through to the city no matter the cost in men and vehicles. One more push, and we win. We cannot fail now.”

“It will be as you say, Admiral,” said Commodore Yen, as he signaled the communications officers. “Our coming victory will add to the greater glory of China.”

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

An Arctic ‘whiteout’ blanketed Anchorage. It blanketed everything in South Central Alaska, including the Kenai Peninsula. A red-eyed and exhausted Stan Higgins stood in the National Guard armory with his gunner Jose.

Outside, hail, sleet and snow battered the armory. It was one of the worst storms Stan had ever witnessed. It had brought everything in the city and at the nearby front to a standstill as temperatures plunged fifty degrees below freezing.

“Can you imagine what it’s like out there?” asked Stan. He meant for the enemy, for the Chinese who kept coming and never gave up.

Jose seemed to creak as he turned bloodshot eyes on him. The green scarf tightly wound around Jose’s neck had become singed at the ends. That had happened outside Portage when the gun-breach had become hot from endless firing.

Stan felt a squeeze around his heart as looked into his friend’s eyes. They were haunted, with a faraway gaze. It was as if Jose had vacated the premises for a time, finding real life too much to handle.

It had only been several weeks ago that the HETS had hauled their Abrams out of the armory. Since reaching Cooper Landing, they’d been fighting almost non-stop. Now they were back where they’d started, but missing most of the company. Three battered Abrams had returned. Once, there had been ten. Two of the tanks could still run on their own power, but just barely. The third M1A2 had been towed back. Stan could remember countless company barbecues and the bowling leagues. Most of those men were now dead. A few were badly mutilated and in the Army hospital. During the retreat, Stan had seen hundreds of burning vehicles, helicopters, and hundreds more dead or bloody body-pieces lying in the snow. Most of those who had fought and survived the retreat looked like Jose.

Stan better understood Civil War General Sherman. The man had said, “War is Hell.” In Alaska, it wasn’t a biblical Hell, but a Viking Niflheim of ice, snow and shrieking storms.

Thinking of storms, of the hail pounding the armory, Stan stirred and managed a bitter smile. He clapped Jose on the shoulder. “Do you hear that out there?”

Slowly, awareness returned to Jose’s eyes. He nodded.

“That storm is our ally,” said Stan. “No one can move and certainly no one can fight in that. You go get some sleep. You look terrible.”

Jose’s mouth creaked open as he muttered, “First, I must help with the tanks. I must make sure they’re ready for tomorrow.”

Stan stifled a yawn. He was so tired, just deep down achy. Yet he nodded. He’d help with the tanks, too. His dead friends, his living ones, his wife and his dad—

One of the armory’s barn-sized doors creaked open. Snow howled in, and a freezing wind whistled through the armory so Stan shivered. He hated the cold. He’d never known he could hate and loathe something so badly. There had been too many days in the snow fighting under horrible conditions. Several of his toes had turned blue, and it had been agonizing reheating them back into life. If they’d turned black, a surgeon would have amputated them. A lot of Alaskans—too many of them Militiamen—had lost fingers, toes, noses and ears during this winter war. Deep in his mind, Stan could still hear the screams of the dying. The exploding shells, the hammering machineguns….

A big truck roared and slowly entered the armory as snow swirled around it. Behind the truck on a towline came a battered Stryker. Once the two vehicles were inside, men jumped out of the truck and closed the big door. The icy cold no longer swirled everywhere, but it hammered and pelted outside for admittance.

The men from the truck moved toward Stan. They were tired-looking mechanics with grease on their parkas, particularly their sleeves.

“You guys ready?” one of the grease monkeys asked. He was a young man with a week’s growth of whispers.

Stan had to concentrate in order to speak. The weariness in his bones was making his eyelids droop. “I want my tanks ready to go as soon as this storm lets up.”

“That’s our orders, too,” the mechanic said. “We work until we drop.”

Stan nodded. He was just about ready to drop himself. “Let’s start with that tank.”

The mechanic shook his head. “No, not you, Captain. You help us by showing us the worst problems. Then you go and get some sleep. You look like crap.”

“Now see here—”

“No,” said another man, climbing out of the Stryker.

Stan had to blink several times. He knew the man. It was Brigadier Hector Ramos.

“You see here, Captain,” said Ramos. The brigadier had black and blue circles around his eyes, but there was still a strange brightness to them. “You’re being attached to what’s left of the 1st Stryker Brigade. It isn’t much, either. I lost my 105s somewhere and I’ve heard we’re almost out of TOW2s. My men are exhausted. I can see by your face that you are too. This storm won’t last forever. When it’s done, I want you well rested and eager to go. Your tanks are going to be the heart of what’s left of my brigade.”

Stan wasn’t sure he liked hearing that. It sounded too much like what Major Williams had once said outside of Cooper Landing. And that hadn’t ended so well. Stan frowned as he summoned his remaining energy.

“I’m glad to see you’re still among the living, Brigadier.”

“Me, too, Professor. I’d like to chat, but I have too much to do. We’re getting a respite with his storm, but no more than that. When it’s done, we’re going to slug it out with a million Chinese.”

“As many as that?” asked Stan.

“Maybe not quite,” said Ramos, “but it feels like it. No matter how many we kill—and I’ve been killing a lot of them—they just keep coming. Now go on, go home and sleep in your bed for a change. Then get ready for the fight of your life.”

Stan stared at the small brigadier. He had questions for the man. Instead of asking any, he yawned. Before he slumped over, he needed to show the mechanics things about the three Abrams.

“All right,” he told the chief mechanic. “If you’ll step over here, I’ll show you the first problem.”

-16-

Ice War

ARCTIC OCEAN

General Shin Nung of the Chinese Cross-Polar Taskforce paced outside on the pack ice between several of his snowtanks. Impotent anger gripped him, it had been for several weeks now. Why had they even given him command of the taskforce if they allowed East Lightning Commissar Yongzheng veto power over his decisions?

The commissar was militarily a fool, an incompetent and a coward. The Americans had used a nuclear torpedo, destroying a forward supply base. Chinese submarines now hunted the Americans under the pack ice. So far, it had kept the enemy from using another such weapon. Meanwhile, American Special Forces driving snowmobiles had raided other supply dumps. Those teams likely also spotted for the submarines.

Because of nuclear weapons, Nung’s fighters and bombers flew from base camps hundreds of kilometers away from where they should be. It took them longer to reach the North Slope now and engage the American aircraft. Because of the distance, the Chinese planes had a much shorter window over the targets. Nung had ordered the airstrips moved closer, but the Air Force general in charge of the planes had refused, saying he couldn’t risk it until the American snowmobile teams were destroyed. Foolishly and by now predictably, Commissar Yongzheng had agreed with the man’s cowardly decision.

Nung had an insane desire to draw his pistol and empty the clip into the ice. Despite the nuclear-tipped torpedo and snowmobiles, Commissar Yongzheng had insisted they follow Army doctrine on a cross-polar assault.

Yet why bother with forward supply dumps now? It would have been better by far to allow the supplies to gather in one location four hundred kilometers from the coast. Once the tail coiled up and the formations gathered, they would spring to Dead Horse and ANWR. It was a risk, and the American submarines might find the large base and launch their torpedoes. But with everything in one locale, every spotter and helicopter could comb the ice for the snowmobile teams. Locate and destroy. As it was, the crafty Americans used the many seams between small formations to slip here and there. To be sure, they had killed seven such snowmobile teams already, but the American submarines kept launching more.

Taunting Commissar Yongzheng had insisted they scatter the taskforce in order to make it difficult for the Americans to take them out at a blow. What had happened instead was a hopeless muddle, with too much fuel used scattering units and transshipping supplies back and forth in a useless game of chess with the Americans. Now supplies were drying up and they were no closer to the Alaskan coast.

Nung shook his head as a cargo helicopter came in from the north for a landing. The last thing he wanted to do now was enter the command tank with Yongzheng. He loathed the East Lightning commissar. All these fine vehicles given him to command and he was shackled in their use. It simply made no sense!

He had done a Hannibal, referring to the great ancient general who had brought his elephants and cavalry over the Alps. The alpine, winter trek had cost Hannibal dearly, and it had cost the cross-polar taskforce. The deadly weather and extreme distance had brought endless headaches and equipment failures. Now the supplies from Ambarchik across this stretched line had dropped to a trickle. That had surprised Nung most of all. He had left Lieutenant-General Bojing in charge back at base. What could have happened to turn Bojing into such an incompetent?

Heavyset Nung stared at the command snowtank. These specialized vehicles were a marvel of Chinese engineering. Each snowtank had two main sections connected by a hydraulic ram. To facilitate climbing snowy slopes such as awaited them in Alaska, the center of gravity was just back of center. Normal tanks would flip or slide on such snowy terrain, quickly rendering them helpless. The snowtank had four independent track sections that helped stabilize the vehicle. The tracks themselves were rubber-rimmed to prevent the wheels turning the tracks from freezing. The articulated tank with its aluminum alloy treads and high-adhesion track-cleats allowed it to travel forty kph on hard ice or flat rock. On the pack ice, it only moved at a miserable seven kph. Otherwise, the snowtank would create too great of a wave-action under the ice. With its weight, that wave-action could crack or splinter the ice. The snowtank’s rear compartment was armed with an ATGM-launcher. The front used the same type of cannon as the hovertanks: a 76mm gun with rocket-assisted shells. The snowtank was built light, with a ground pressure of two psi, one third that of a Marauder tank.

The cargo helicopter from the north had landed. The side door opened and men rushed out, shouting his name.

General Nung sighed and waved. Now what? Soon, the men stumped near. Nung looked in shock. Despite the parka, hood and goggles, one of the men reminded him of Bojing, his logistics master back at Ambarchik Base. Then the man shouted his name, confirming his identity.

“Bojing?” asked Nung. “What in blazes are you doing here on the ice? You’re supposed to be back at Ambarchik, making sure I receive my supplies.”

Bojing told him an incredible tale. It began with Ruling Committee Minister Jian Shihong sending Bojing out here to give a verbal for-his-ears-only command. The longer Bojing talked, the more incensed Nung became.

“They’re berating me for not attacking?” Nung said at last, his face feeling like an oven, he was so angry.

“Yes, sir,” said Bojing. “By the way, sir, I’m also to report that your wife and children are safe. East Lightning no longer has them.”

Nung blinked, with his mind awhirl with a hundred questions. Finally, he thundered, “Why in the name of Mao didn’t you radio all this to me?”

“It was the Chairman’s orders, sir. This could only be relayed to you by face-to-face contact. I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner, but my plane crashed and we waited days for rescue. Then my next plane was left stranded at an airstrip as we awaited more fuel. Here at the end, I had a hard time discovering which of these little bases you were at last.”

Nung ingested Bojing’s story. It encapsulated what had happened to the entire taskforce. What had started out so well had turned into a tangled fiasco. Distance plus equipment-failure plus an alien terrain— “If you’re out here,” Nung said, “who is running my supplies back at Ambarchik?”

“I believe that Minster Jian Shihong has taken that upon himself, sir.”

Nung wanted to shout. The Ruling Committee itself was sabotaging his efforts? He shook his head, trying to clear it of anger. They actually accused him of cowardice. They accused him of holding back when all this time he’d wanted to attack.

“Come with me,” Nung said in a thick voice. He strode for the command snowtank. Bojing trotted after him, with the others he’d brought trailing behind.

“What are you planning, sir?” asked Bojing.

Nung removed his right mitten and drew his pistol. The metal was freezing cold, but that felt good now. Nung could no longer speak and his eyes seemed to spark with emotions. He fumbled with the hatch, clicked it and opened the way into the command-tank. He squeezed through.

Commissar Yongzheng played cards with his bodyguard. The commissar looked up, and he must have seen something on Nung’s face. Yongzheng dove as he shouted for his bodyguard to save him.

Nung’s pistol barked three times. The bodyguard with eyes like oil slid to the tank’s floor.

Yongzheng was openly weeping. His mouth moved, but Nung couldn’t hear a thing because his ears were still ringing from the shots. Maybe the commissar finally found it impossible to taunt him, found it impossible to articulate the words he attempted to speak.

“Give me one of your sayings now!” roared Nung, his breath misting.

Once more, Commissar Yongzheng tried to speak.

Smiling with malice, Nung raised his pistol. A deafening boom sounded. He kept firing until he was out of bullets. Then he shoved the pistol into its holster. Yongzheng’s corpse was a bloody, twisted pile of meat. Nung climbed out of the tank and turned to a stunned Bojing.

“They want me to attack?” Nung asked.

Bojing only seemed capable of nodding.

“Then I name this as our central depot,” Nung said. “You’re in charge of supplies.”

“The American submarines…” said Bojing.

“I know all about them,” Nung said. “We’ll widen our defensive cordon.”

“You’re going to attack how, sir?”

“It won’t be anything fancy. A two-tier wave assault will do it. The hovertanks will go in immediately, with the snowtanks following as fast as they can. All the while, our air will pound the Americans and our helicopters will drop infantry onto the North Slope.”

“You’re too far away to do that from here,” said Bojing. “And if you start now, the hovertanks will outstrip the snowtanks by days.”

“I said it isn’t fancy,” Nung said. “It’s either stay on the ice and wait for the Americans to explode it out from under our feet, or fight and die against the enemy. Well, I’m going to choose the third way.”

“What is that, sir?”

“Fight and break through to the oilfields,” Nung said.

“Can we hold the oilfields once we take them?”

“We’ll worry about that once they’re ours. Until then, it’s just a moot question. Maybe our very capturing of them will cause the Americans to surrender. It’s what happened with the Siberians.”

Bojing licked his lips.

“Don’t tell me that the Americans aren’t Siberians,” Nung said. “I’m sick of hearing that.”

Hastily shaking his head, Bojing said, “No, no, of course not, sir. To the North Slope, to victory over the Americans.”

Nung’s eyes gleamed. At last, he could do things his way. He was badly out of position thanks to Commissar Yongzheng and Army High Command that had saddled him with the mincing coward. But he wasn’t going to complain. He was going to attack fast the way it should have been done in the first place.

AMBARCHIK, EAST SIBERIA

“It’s the Chairman, sir,” the communications officer told Jian Shihong. “He’s asking for you personally. He must know you’re here.”

Jian swallowed. “I will take the message in my office.”

He noticed the rest of the officers of the communications staff staring at him. Forcing heartiness into his bearing, Jian glanced around. As soon as he closed the door behind him, however, Jian closed his eyes.

How I am supposed to play this? I never imagined that Bojing was such a bumbling idiot and couldn’t find his way to Nung. He’d been waiting a long time to hear that everything proceeded as planned. What had happened to that fool Bojing?

Licking his lips, Jian told himself that instead of Bojing it could have been him lost out on the Arctic ice. It was a logistical nightmare keeping such a large body of troops supplied with their daily needs over thousands of kilometers of pack ice. The Army generals who had concocted this mess had no idea of the foolishness of their plan.

Jian shook his head. There was no way to explain all that to the Chairman now.

You need your wits, Jian. This is the moment.

He sat down, cracked his knuckles and ran a hand through his hair. Then he turned on the monitor. The sickly Chairman regarded him on the screen.

Jian bowed with grave respect.

“It has been some time, Comrade,” the Chairman said.

“I have been hard at work carrying out your command, sir.” With those words, Jian realized that he would lie to the end. If needed, he’d make sure that everyone here who knew of his deception died. Yes, he’d slip their corpses through the ice. Let the seals and polar bears eat their carcasses.

“I am glad to see that you are safe after such a harrowing journey,” the Chairman said. “Yet why have I heard about any victory-news from you? Why did you sit so long on the pack ice?”

“I have lit a fire under General Nung, sir. I have also reorganized the supply situation. It was a—”

“Do not tell me what you did. Tell me when Nung is going to give me the oilfields. You’ve seen him. You’ve judged his competence. Has the American nuclear attack rendered him and the taskforce immobile?”

“I have taken pains,” Jian said, “to render the American submarines useless.”

“Explain that to me.”

“Firstly, sir, our submarines hunt the American vessels under the ice. Secondly, I have spread out the supply depots, making the targets unworthy of their limited nuclear torpedoes.”

“How does that help you attack Alaska?”

“We have carefully moved into attack position, sir,” Jian said. He hoped that was true.

The Chairman squinted at him, creating a thousand wrinkles on that old face. “You are to return to Beijing immediately. I want face-to-face news of Nung and news of conditions on the ice. As you no doubt have learned, a terrible storm blocks us from the final assault against Anchorage. Once the storm passes, Admiral Ling will hand me Anchorage, which he assures me will give us the rest of the State. If your General Nung can take the oilfields at the same time, I believe the Americans will capitulate.”

“I couldn’t agree more, sir,” Jian said.

“I want you here when the Americans plead for peace. If you’ve done your part and truly unleashed Nung, all will be well.”

“Yes, sir,” Jian said, bowing and wondering how he could free himself from this mess.

“Until tomorrow, Comrade, I wish you well.”

Jian bowed once more. When he looked up, the contact was broken. He turned and blinked at a wall. It had a tiny porthole window, showing the bleak winter landscape outside. He hated Ambarchik and the endless headaches involving Army supply. It was time for a purge here. It was good more of his personal security team had arrived. Yet he must do this carefully. He would have to think more on the matter.

So much depended on what Nung achieved. Why didn’t the general attack? What was going on over there?

ARCTIC OCEAN

During the last few days in the Arctic darkness, General Shin Nung had gathered his hovertanks from the outlaying bases. He had them topped off and added fuel pods to each. Then he’d readied sleds as backups.

“Some of the snowtanks must follow us as you gather more fuel,” Nung told Bojing in a command caterpillar. They were in the primary base, four hundred kilometers from the North Slope. “After we leave and as soon as you can, send those fifty tanks after us. Then top off the next fifty as soon as you can gather them together.”

Nung had been hard at work reversing Yongzheng’s dabbling, pulling in the many soldiers, vehicles and planes from the scattered bases. The nuclear attack had frightened the commissar. Well, it didn’t frighten him. Nuclear just meant a bigger explosion, nothing more.

“If we remain stationary at this base for too long,” said Bojing, “the Americans will pinpoint our location. Then it will be the end of the polar taskforce.”

“It’s a risk,” admitted Nung. He had thought about that last night. “Use half the helicopters and keep them on air patrol. Before you launch the last tanks, send every helicopter to the North Slope. Land as close as you can to the oilfields.”

“Sir, if we fly that far, the helicopters won’t have enough fuel to make it back to base.”

“We’ve reached the point in the campaign where it will be a one way journey for the helicopters. I need soldiers in Alaska now!”

“Supplies for them—”

“The helicopter-borne soldiers will carry enough supplies to storm the American bases,” Nung said. “Our soldiers can then feed off the captured stores. The need for hot food and shelter will spur our men to acts of heroism.”

Bojing grew thoughtful. “Can I ask where you will be during all this, sir?”

“I’m riding in the saddle, as the Russians call it. I will lead from the front, as a tank commander should. In other words, I’ll go in with the first wave of hovertanks.”

“Yes, General,” said Bojing.

Nung knew that look. Bojing didn’t like it, but his logistics officer had never appreciated his smash-through tactics. “Once you’ve topped off the last snowtanks, you will return to Ambarchik Base. Talk the Politburo minister there into rolling up the long tail across the ice. With the loss of so many cargo planes and caterpillar-haulers, I cannot see how we can keep the stretched line intact.”

“That would cut you off from supplies, sir.”

“How very perceptive of you,” Nung said. “I have learned a valuable lesson this campaign.”

“Would you care to share it with me, sir?”

“You should understand the lesson better than I.” Nung concentrated. “This is a nightmare land. The limitations of vehicle speed, particularly the snowtanks, the vicious cold and the blizzards, it eats a mechanized army. It devours men, supplies and machines. The longer one remains on the pack ice, the worse the situation becomes. I do not believe it is possible to keep our forces in North Slope Alaska supplied for long, at least not across the ice and not with darkest winter coming. What one can do is move fast, taking everything in one fell swoop. Unfortunately, our hovertanks are too delicate for such a long crossing. I wish now I’d used my sleds and caterpillar-haulers to haul my hovertanks as close to Alaska as I dared. I’ve had to cannibalize nearly half our remaining hovers just to keep the other half viable.”

“How will we re-supply you then?” asked Bojing.

“Submarines and icebreakers seem like the vessels of choice.”

“What you’re saying, General—this is no longer a taskforce meant to conquer the North Slope, but to raid it.”

“Maybe you’re right,’ Nung said. “Whatever I do, I start today.”

“You will need air cover,” said Bojing.

Nung nodded. “See to it, but make sure you launch the first fifty snowtanks. If you find that you cannot, then send thirty tanks. I want something coming to reinforce what I take.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good luck, Bojing,” Nung said, shaking the man’s hand.

“Good luck to you, sir. I dearly hope you grab the oilfields as you grabbed Yakutsk in Siberia.”

“That, my good friend, is exactly what I intend to do.”

DEAD HORSE, ALASKA

“It’s like this,” the Marine captain told the hard-eyed civilians seated in the room. They wore parkas and woolen hats, many cradling rifles between their knees. “We can wait for the enemy to hit us in Dead Horse and maybe blow the wells. Or we can attack the Chinese on the ice and finish it out there.”

Paul Kavanagh glanced around at the others in the room. Everyone sat on benches, as this was a makeshift church in a Quonset hut. The Marine captain stood in front of the podium, not behind it where a priest of preacher would have been. Some of the seated where like Paul and Red Cloud, Blacksand mercenaries. Some were local hard cases.

After the nuclear explosion, Pilot Pete had taken them to Dead Horse. The Marine captain had interviewed Paul and Red Cloud for several days. After being cleared, Paul had wanted to call his ex and son, but there was no connection to the outside world expect by Marine radio.

Captain Bullard presently glared at the assembled civilians. He was a typical-looking Marine. He seemed a little older and was tough, with an I-can-kick-your-butt kind of attitude showing by the way he stood. In his talks with the man, Paul had found Bullard easy to deal with because the Marine told it like it was.

Bullard now puffed out his chest, scowling at the crowd. “I know this is going to surprise you. There’s been a foul-up because everything at the moment in terms of reinforcements is going to Anchorage. No matter what else happens here, the President and the Joint Chiefs want our boys to keep the Chinese from taking Anchorage. Seems like our naval counterparts from the East have fought through everything the Army and Alaskan National Guard could throw at them. Therefore, everything in terms of reinforcements is landing at Fairbanks. The mother of all snowstorms is blanketing Anchorage and the Kenai Peninsula that the Chinese have been using as a springboard. The storm will let up any day now, and then the last battle for Alaska will take place. At least, that’s how Fox News is playing it and we know they never make mistakes.”

There was a laugh and several snorts from the crowd.

“What’s any of that got to do with us?” Paul asked from the back.

“You used to be in the Marines, is that right?” asked Bullard.

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Bullard swept his gaze over the others. “This man fought in Quebec, if I remember what he told me, against the French-Canadians.”

“Yeah,” Paul said.

“In fact, you fought against men like your boss, Red Cloud.”

More than one person on the benches turned to stare at Paul and Red Cloud.

“Listen up,” Bullard said, “and I’ll tell you what that has to do with us. The Army shipped us some of their new winter fighting suits. Unfortunately, they forgot to add any soldiers with them. Now I have a handful of Marines, and most of them have to keep guard here on orders of the Joint Chiefs. But I need warm bodies to shove into those suits so they can help me kick butt against the Chinese. We have a few planes here, and they’ve spotted over a hundred hovertanks converging on Dead Horse. There’s probably more behind them. I want to stop those lead hovers before they disgorge Chinese infantry onto Alaskan soil.”

“Hovertanks,” Paul said. “They’re made for maneuvering on the ice.”

“Thank you oh so much for the update,” Bullard said. “What I want to know, Marine, is whether you have any balls left. Or did they get frozen off on your little stroll across the ice?”

Paul thought about Murphy staring out of the snowcat’s window. He thought about his promise. “Are these winter suits any good?” asked Paul.

“Do you want to find out?”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “I do.”

“What about you, Red Cloud? Are you going to let a Marine outdo a French-Canadian?”

“I’m Algonquin.”

“Same question then,” Bullard said, “just put whatever you said in place of French-Canadian.”

Red Cloud glanced at Paul.

“You don’t have to do this,” Paul whispered.

Red Cloud gave him a ghost of a smile. “We are brothers of the ice. Where you fight, I fight.” He turned to the captain. “I will don these winterized suits.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Bullard said. “What about you others? Do any of you have balls, or are you a bunch of sissies who want to wait for the boy-raping Chinese to come and squeeze you?”

“Are we walking out to meet them?” asked Paul.

“Not a chance. We have a few Marine choppers. We’ll use those to put you down at exactly the right spot.”

“I have one request after we’re done,” Paul said.

“Name it.”

“I want to use your radio to patch through to California to talk to my wife and kid.”

“If you’re alive after the little skirmish, you have my word on that.”

Paul nodded, deciding he liked the blunt captain. He wasn’t so happy about going back on the ice, but the vision in his head of Murphy staring out of the cat’s window didn’t give him much choice in the matter.

NORTH SLOPE, ALASKA

The pack ice high over Prudhoe Bay was at the extreme range of the ABM lasers in China, at least while using their protected space-mirrors. Those mirrors were situated over China’s heartland, thereby keeping them well out of range of all American weapons except for killer satellites. The ABM lasers had shot down every high-flying, long-distance GPS drone the U.S. Air Force had sent up in this region. It took time, however, for the Chinese to locate a newly-launched drone.

The latest GPS drone now flew at the edge of the North Slope, miles high in the atmosphere. Through passive thermal and infrared sensors, it spotted the hovertanks. They moved rapidly across the frozen Beaufort Sea as they approaching the Alaskan coast.

The drone’s remote-controller activated its radar to get an exact fix on the hovers. Because of the radar, it discovered the Chinese fighters flying combat air patrols to the rear of the hovertanks and the bombers farther behind them. The remote-controlling station was in Fairbanks, Alaska. The ice-age blizzard over Anchorage was less powerful here, making it possible to use the runways. The controller waited for C-in-C Sims to make his decision from the CP in Anchorage.

General Sims examined the data, he said, “This is it: the attack we’ve been dreading.” He lowered his chin onto his chest as he thought through the implications. When he raised his head, he said, “Launch the Reflex fighters.”

“How many of them, sir?” his air chief asked.

Sims spoke softly as he said, “All of them.”

The air chief swiveled around to stare at him.

Half the nation’s Reflex air-superiority fighters had been flown to Fairbanks. Fighter was a misnomer, as each jet was larger than a Galaxy cargo plane. Each carried an ultra-hardened mirror on the bottom of the aircraft, the reflex of the unique battle system. The laser came from the nearest, nuclear-powered ABM station. That laser would bounce its beam off the plane’s hardened reflex mirror, which when calibrated exactly should hit and destroy the target. The pulse-laser was so powerful, however, that it quickly burned through the hardened reflex mirror. That made the giant fighter inoperable until a new mirror was fit into place. The first Reflex fighter moved down the extra-long runway. A handful of others waited their turn. Afterward, an AWACS would follow and then two electronic warfare drones.

The primary function of Chinese COIL planes and American Reflex fighters was to destroy theater and tactical nuclear missiles during flight. The secondary function was to destroy cruise missiles. Lastly, they targeted enemy aircraft and drones.

The Reflex fighters lifted from Fairbanks and climbed into the atmosphere, gaining the needed height. Then the nearest ABM station was called and its giant pulse-laser readied.

The first battle for the North Slope began fifteen minutes later. A strategic ABM laser in Xing Province of China stabbed its beam into the heavens and reflected off a space-mirror. In seconds, it cut down the American recon drone.

Nine and a half minutes later, the American Reflex fighters struck back. The giant station outside of Fairbanks stabbed its ferocious beam off the first airborne mirror. Like a banking billiard ball, the laser flashed across the State and over the pack ice. The first pulse stabbed into the Arctic night and burned down a regular Chinese fighter. The second pulse missed, while the third blinded a Chinese pilot, causing his J-25 Mongoose to veer off-course. Those pulses caused a warning light to flash inside the first Reflex fighter, telling the crew that the mirror had taken damage. With each proceeding pulse-strike, the odds would increase of a burn-through against the plane. The ABM station was informed of this as the pilot banked the giant plane and began the long approach back to base. The next airborne reflex mirror moved up, and the sequence started again.

Unaware that the Americans only possessed a handful of reflex planes, the Chinese fighters on CAP over the hovertanks engaged afterburners. They hit the deck, jinking wildly and speeding back to base. It meant that for a short time, anyway, the hovertanks lacked air cover.

ARCTIC OCEAN

General Shin Nung shook his head as his radio officer informed him of the fleeing Mongooses, those that had been carefully winterized for fighting in the Arctic Circle.

“Let them go,” Nung said. Outside, the pack ice flashed past in a blur. It was dark and the stars glittered in amazing profusion. All around him roared a little over a hundred hovertanks. Behind followed thirty sleds with extra fuel, supplies and infantry. The formation was spread across the ice, moving like a winter armada of dark ships.

The hover’s engine-whine made speech difficult inside the vehicle. It was why Nung and his officers wore headsets over their ears and spoke into microphones.

“Sir!” shouted his communications officer, who watched a screen. “American strike-craft are zeroing in on us.”

“Of course they are,” Nung said. “It’s why they used their lasers to chase off our covering fighters.” He nodded. The Siberians had lacked such sophisticated hardware as the Americans possessed, but his tanks back then hadn’t been outfitted with such advanced munitions.

“Tell the troops to form up in a hedgehog formation and load their guns with Red Arrow anti-air rounds.”

Twelve minutes later, the American bombers made their charge, screaming across the ice from the front and two sides.

By now, the hovertanks had edged closer together by lance and by troop. Three hovertanks made a lance. Three lances made a troop.

As the Americans launched their air-to-ground missiles, the advanced defense radars on the hovertanks achieved lock-on. With the radars, the hovertanks used a new Interlock fire control system. It allowed twenty or more hovers to form into a single, anti-air defense, concentrating missiles, cannons and machineguns for attack. Once vulnerable to mass destruction from air, hovers and tanks created deadly destruction zones in a range up to 3000 meters. In lance volleys, 76mm guns fired Red Arrows rounds. The rocket-assisted shells whooshed upward after the American bombers.

There were hits all around. American missiles zoomed low and slammed into hovertanks. On the ice, hovers exploded into blazing fireballs, showering melting plastic, Kevlar, burning aluminum and bloody body-parts. Meanwhile, smoking bombers crashed from the sky. As it impacted, each bomber disintegrated into a mass of shrieking metal and splashed jet-fuel. The pack ice groaned as it splintered. Then red-hot sparks caused ignition so the fuel blazed fiercely, sometimes melting through the ice and exposing the dark water underneath.

Nung watched his screen as outer cameras recorded the bright points of destruction. Here more than elsewhere, the modern rule of combat prevailed. What one saw, one could kill. This was going to be costly. He struck his armrest. He—

“Sir!” the communications officer shouted. “The bombers are breaking off.”

General Nung sat up in his command chair. Was it possible the Americans possessed so few aircraft that they were unwilling to trade planes for hovers? On impulse, he lurched up to the commander’s hatch. Raising it, he shoved his head into the plastic-covered copula. It was colder up here, but the plastic bubble quickly filled with the compartment’s heat. He looked back into the darkness. Behind him, hovertanks burned on the ice. So did a few sleds. Fortunately, the majority of the taskforce kept advancing across the vast white sheet of terrain.

Sliding down from his copula and into the main cab, Nung asked, “Do they have anything else to throw at us? Or did a single taste of our anti-air rounds prove too much for the Americans?”

The communications officer listened closely to those sending information. He put a hand over one of his earmuffs before turning to Nung. “If my data is correct, sir, we took out nearly a third of their bombers. I don’t think the Americans liked that.” The man grinned. “Our Red Arrows are better than anything they possess.”

“We are Chinese,” Nung said, as if that explained everything. He turned to his special monitor. A quick count showed that he still had eighty-three hovertanks. That was more than enough for what he had planned. The Americans must be stretched to the breaking point. Yes, most of their aircraft would be on the Southern Front against Anchorage. He should have attacked sooner. That fool Yongzheng.

“One pass and the Americans bolted,” Nung said. Smiling, he added, “Who said these Americans aren’t Siberians? Well, let me tell you something. Whoever said the two aren’t the same is wrong. A frightened man always acts similarly—he runs away. The Americans are running. Gentlemen, we have them.”

PRUDHOE BAY, ALASKA

“Go, go, go!” roared the Marine at the bay door of the whomping helicopter. The whirling blades whipped up bits of ice and snow, and it blew down freezing air.

Paul jumped out in his winterized suit. His boots hit the pack ice with a jarring crunch, causing his teeth to click together. That was too close—he’d almost bitten off his tongue. Next time he’d remember to keep his mouth closed.

Red Cloud landed beside him.

“Don’t forget your launcher!” the Marine roared from the open door.

Paul nodded. The white winter suit was an amazing piece of equipment. They could have used something like this in Quebec. It covered him from head to toe like an old style knight. A lot of the suit’s outer skin was armor, but it was light. Even better, it had a temperature gauge, keeping him warm with a thermal heater. That took battery power, and that battery and mini-generator he carried on his back. There was even a Heads Up Display on his visor.

How the suits got shipped up here without troops I’ll never know. I don’t care. I’m just glad I get to wear it.

Red Cloud and he wrestled a special TOW2 sled off the bottom of the chopper. Once done, Paul stepped into the pilot’s view and waved his arm.

The chopper’s engine roared with greater life and the blades whirled like mad. The machine lifted a little higher and banked hard. It would deposit two more TOW2 crews before it returned home to Dead Horse.

Here I am again, stuck on the ice again.

“Don’t engage the motor,” Red Cloud said.

“Hey, I have ears too you know? I heard what Bullard told us before leaving.”

Red Cloud didn’t bother answering, but looked around. He pointed in the near distance.

Paul saw it, a small pressure ridge. “Perfect,” he said.

Each of them grabbed a line and towed their missile-launching sled into position. The winter suits were the latest. Their ATGM was as old school as it came. It was a long tube with controls and extra TOW2 missiles. TOW stood for Tube-launched, Optically-tracked, Wire command data link, guided missile. Actually, to be precise, theirs was a TOW-2B Aero. The special nosecone increased the missile’s range to forty-five hundred meters. The missile was simple to operate. You found the target on the scope and fired. The missile popped out of the launcher, ignited and sped toward the target at 278 miles per second. As one kept the optical sensor on the enemy, an electronic signal ran up the two trailing wires uncoiling from the missile and adjusted the missile’s flight as necessary. It carried a thirteen-pound HEAT warhead. Their M220 launcher had thermal optics so they could see the targets in the Arctic darkness.

After setting up the launcher, Paul waited, checking his watch. Then he stood up and lifted a flare. The orange light was bright in the darkness. A flare burned into existence to the left about fifty yards away and to the right of their position maybe seventy yards.

“I think they got our message,” Paul said.

“Yes,” Red Cloud said.

Paul cut the end of the flare so it would burn out faster and then dropped it.

“Now we wait,” Red Cloud said.

“Wonderful,” Paul said.

They didn’t have long to wait. Marine Captain Bullard had decided to play this one for keeps. He’d ordered the choppers to set up the thin line as close to the approaching hovertanks as possible. The single bomber pass had served two purposes. Firstly, it had kept the enemy occupied. Secondly, it had allowed them to set up the launchers in secret. Bullard had known all about the Red Arrow anti-air rounds, hating them immensely.

Paul remembered the captain’s words: Keep it simple stupid.

The captain had gone on to explain the situation. They were stretching a line in front of the Chinese like a net to catch tuna. They were supposed to burn out as many of the hovertanks as they could. If the Chinese tried to go around them, they were supposed to hit them in the flank as they passed. The key was to kill hovers and later walk back if the choppers failed to survive to pick them up again.

There had been plenty of questions afterward, but none of those had come from Paul.

Red Cloud now tapped Paul on the shoulder.

“It’s payback time,” Paul said, as his gut tightened. Across the ice ahead of them approached a mass of the enemy, moving fast.

Red Cloud activated the M220 Launcher.

“This is for you Murphy,” Paul whispered. He watched through his scope, picked his target and waited until the target was at extreme range. The distance was a running green number in his scope. Four thousand five hundred meters was four and a half kilometers. That was about two and eight tenths miles away. That was a nice range, especially out here on this flat tabletop of pack ice. He waited as he let the spread-out Chinese formation come in a little closer.

“You ready?” asked Paul.

“Yes,” Red Cloud said.

Paul pulled the trigger, and in seconds, their TOW sped away. Then all over the landscape, more ATGMs lighted up as the missiles raced toward the forward hovertanks. Each missile uncoiled and trailed its twin wires, receiving constant course corrections. As fast as the missiles flew, it took time to speed over two miles. Enemy heavy machinegun-fire began almost immediately, but it couldn’t reach this far. Still, seeing those flashes was disconcerting. It was meant to frighten the TOW operators so they wouldn’t keep the optics on target. It made Paul’s heart pound, but he kept telling himself the machineguns lacked the range. Then the 76mm cannons began firing. The flashes were bigger, and the igniting shells moved in a flare toward them.

Paul tracked his chosen hover as he moved his optics. Then…slam, the missile impacted. There was brilliant flare of light on the ice over two miles away.

Before Paul could rejoice, a 76mm canister flashed near and exploded. Hot shrapnel scarred the ice, but the shell had missed.

More explosions occurred out there as Red Cloud grunted, lifting and loading another missile into the tube. When he was ready, Red Cloud slapped Paul hard on the right shoulder.

Paul thrust his eyes against the scope, choosing another hover.

Despite the TOW-2B Aero’s extreme range, the battle was short and intense. The hovers moved at combat speeds now, over seventy mph. The Chinese had the advantage of long association with their machines. The American ATGM crews were raw, even if most of them had former combat experience. Paul and Red Cloud did better than most of the others, scoring two kills. Every one of them out on the ice was a hard-bitten man, but panic set in among some of the teams.

“They’re not veering away!” shouted Paul, as Red Cloud loaded the fourth missile into the launcher.

“It’s an overrun,” Red Cloud said.

Paul could hear the lead hovers now. The machines were loud and they were fast, gliding like ghosts over the white plain. The 76mm guns boomed, and gouts of snow and ice showed where canisters scored hits. The wave of vehicles remorselessly moved against their thin line.

As Paul sighted the next enemy, machinegun bullets hammered nearby into the pressure ridge. Chips of ice sprayed, one of them stinging Paul’s cheek as it furrowed across. An exploding grenade flashed nearby, hissing its shrapnel over them.

“Down!” shouted Paul, who dove behind the pressure ride and hugged the ice. Red Cloud did the same. They crawled, moving away from their sled and tube-launcher. Each found a depression and froze. Paul did so because he remembered Bullard’s words.

“With these suits, you hide and freeze like a possum. They’ll never see you until you pop up later and cut them down from behind.”

Soon, the approaching hovers roared with deadly sound. The gliding machines were almost on top of them. Then a hovertank went into high gear as it whined with power, lifting higher as it topped over the pressure ridge.

Paul trembled as fear washed through him. He had his vow, but he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live, call Cheri later and talk to Mikey. He wanted to go home. What their side needed out here was more soldiers armed with grenade launchers, heavy machineguns and recoilless rifles. Then they would have obliterated these hovertanks. How had the Chinese commander known they just had TOWs? How had he known the best tactic was to smash through?

Enemy machineguns hammered nearby and hovertank guns thundered. It must be a slaughter.

I’m not going to die like a coward. I’m at least going to face the enemy.

With a wrenching effort of will, Paul peeked up. The sight surprised him. The hovertanks were spread over a large area, but some had grouped together. Their guns roared, and canister shells exploded against the pressure ridge sixty feet away. Hot tracer machinegun rounds also blasted at the raised ice mound that ran for miles in either direction.

Red Cloud also looked up. The two exchanged glances.

The hovertanks blew a path through the pressure ridge. Big sleds with ski-mounts in the front and tracks in the back propelled flat sleds through the openings. Some of the sleds were obvious tankers. Others must carry ammo and the last were infantry carriers.

“Let’s wait until they pass,” Paul said.

Red Cloud answered by hugging the ice again. Paul followed his example. This wasn’t like Quebec. There, if you lay on the ice for any amount of time you began shivering. Here, their winter suits kept them warm because of the thermal heaters built into them.

Paul checked his watch. Less than fifteen minutes had passed. The sounds of the hovertanks and sleds lessened as the rearguard rapidly moved away.

“Now!” shouted Paul. He jumped up and put his shoulder against the sled. Surprisingly, it had survived intact. In seconds, Red Cloud was helping him, grunting and heaving. They turned it, and Red Cloud loaded up another missile. Paul sighted, grinning fiercely in his enclosed helmet. He pressed the firing stub.

The seconds ticked by. An orange fireball was his reward. It lit up the night in a whoosh of flame that towered higher than he could believe.

“We must have gotten one of their fuel vehicles!” Paul shouted.

Another ATGM hissed in flight, the bright contrails showing its path. Canister shells exploded in the ice several hundred yards away. The racing TOW missile lurched and harmlessly smashed into the pack ice. The Chinese had slain its operators.

Red Cloud loaded their last missile.

Paul sighted and fired, but this one missed. Fortunately, the range had already gotten too far for the Chinese to fire back.

In a matter of a few more minutes, the enemy was simply a field of bright specks. It didn’t take long until the Arctic night blanketed the world with its darkness. The only bright points were the burning hovers and sleds behind them. It put a thick stink of oily smoke in the air.

The Chinese had burst through their net, taking losses but far from being stopped.

As that thought settled in, Paul said, “We’re stuck out on the ice again.”

“Maybe we were meant to die out here,” Red Cloud said. “Maybe our fate lies here.”

Paul thought about that. Finally, he said, “Our sled has a little motive power. Let’s go see who else is left alive. Then we’ll start traveling for Dead Horse.”

Red Cloud peered at him through his ballistic glass visor. The Algonquin looked tired, although his eyes seemed harder, more determined than ever. He nodded.

“Unless you want to help fate and stay out here to die,” Paul said.

“No. I will fight to live and live to fight.”

“Sounds good,” Paul said. He himself fought to fulfill a vow and to survive long enough to make things right with his ex. He could see now that he hadn’t tried hard enough with Cheri. He would woo her again. He would…if he could make it home.

“Ready?” asked Red Cloud.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

DEAD HORSE, ALASKA

General Shin Nung swore viciously as another bomber zoomed out of the Arctic sky, launching its missiles. First, a Red Arrow slammed into the American aircraft, causing an explosion in the sky. Then a nearby hovertank exploded, killing it and the nine soldiers riding outside the vehicle.

That’s when the American artillery began pounding the location. The shots created great flashes of light on the horizon. Those flashes showed where Dead Horse, Alaska was, their key objective. As the shells screamed down, exploding over the tundra, Nung’s command hover shuddered, and shell fragments rattled against the vehicle’s armor.

Nung swore. He was in a foul mood. He had been ever since the deadly TOW2 missiles had struck his force out on the ice. It had been a costly battle, a nasty surprise. Only fifty-one hovertanks had made it past Cross Island and to the North Slope. Every time he thought about those flashing missiles hitting another hovertank—

Nung struck his armrest. He had to put that battle behind him and concentrate on here. Technically, they had made it to the oilfields outside of Dead Horse. If Nung had desired, he could have begun blowing the wellheads. What he wanted was Dead Horse, the enemy airbase and garrison stationed there. Once he had Dead Horse, the victory would be his.

If he had air cover, the few America jets couldn’t have rushed down at his vehicles in a near suicidal frenzy. The helicopters couldn’t shoot their Hellfire missiles at his sleds. The hovertanks had destroyed most of airborne attackers, but at a bitter cost. The combined total of enemy assaults had destroyed nearly half of his original attacking vehicles.

He kept thinking if, if, if…if Commissar Yongzheng this, the High Command that, the nuclear-tipped torpedo…. He shook his head. War wasn’t a matter of ifs but of accomplishments. He’d made it to the American coast. Now he was going to smash through and take Dead Horse. Then it would be just a matter of waiting for the snowtanks to complete his conquest.

“Go in by lances!” Nung shouted into the microphone. “Infantry, follow on ski.”

Dead Horse was on a flat tundra plain surrounded by American bunkers and command posts. The enemy had mortar-teams and artillery inside the town. Nung had speed, tired hover-pilots and cold soldiers. There wasn’t any finesse to the assault.

The smallest formation among the hovertanks was a lance: three vehicles. Three hovertanks would stop on the cold tundra to provide over-watch fire. They tracked and plotted, shooting at anything that moved. A different lance sped to an outcropping, using every fold in the terrain to escape destruction. From the hovertanks slid off Chinese infantry. Some set up mortars and began peppering the Americans.

Then a shell found Nung’s hover. The scream of twisted metal began it. The vehicle slewed wildly and with a terrific thud crashed against a snow bank. Nung grunted as he slammed against his restraints. Groggily, he looked around. The communications officer was dead, his head a bloody mess. The pilot’s arm was broken as the man sobbed quietly.

“Sir, sir,” squawked from the radio.

Nung lifted a mobile com-unit, tucking it under his arm. Then he staggered for the escape hatch. Upon exiting and sliding down the side of the vehicle, he winced as another hovertank howled near. The vehicle came to a stop beside him as it blew snow everywhere. Five riding soldiers slid off.

It was freezing cold out here, colder than it had been on the ice. It stung Nung’s face and his neck. His teeth began chattering. With an effort of will, as he shoved aside the pain, he shouted, “What are you doing? Don’t stand around me. We’re exposed.”

He forced himself to move, wading through snow until he got to more solid ice. After establishing control over thirty soldiers, he shouted, “Get down!”

He’d had better ears than the others did and had heard the whine of shells. The American artillery had zeroed in on the wreckage. Some of the shrapnel sliced a few of the slower soldiers. Their oozing blood looked like a sluggish stain of ink in the darkness. With another effort of will, Nung tore his gaze from the twisting soldiers. He didn’t have time for them now.

“Advance, keep advancing!” he roared into the communications unit he wore like a backpack.

With his voice lashing them, the last hovertanks continued their advance. 76mm shells, Chinese mortars, ATGMs and RGPs pounded the base that rose up like an Eskimo’s igloo in the distance. Occasionally a thunderous flash appeared there, another artillery tube firing its hated shells.

Shin Nung floundered through the snow, shaking off any helping hands. The Chairman had thought him lacking in attacking zeal. They had accused him of cowardice.

“Attack!” roared Nung, mist pouring from his mouth. It was so cold. “Kill the Americans!”

The Battle of Dead Horse was another meat-grinder. The Chinese traded blood and vehicles for ground. The hovertanks dwindled in number as they floated over the ice, amazingly swift in this land of cold. In the end, the Americans simply lacked enough men, enough shells, bombers and ammo. The Chinese assault carried through into the streets of Dead Horse. The massacre began then, the shivering Chinese too bitter after surviving the Arctic nightmare to grant any mercy.

The last assault took place as Chinese explosives blew open the way into the Marine command post, a half-buried bunker. In the last room, Captain Bullard fired at point blank range, killing two Chinese soldiers. Then Bullard’s automatic was empty and he drew his bayonet. The Marine captain charged, roaring his challenge. Chinese bullets riddled the body until it thumped onto the bloody floor. The Battle of Dead Horse was over, and the Chinese were victorious.

-17-

The Last Push

STERLING, ALASKA

The terrible ice age storm that had howled down from the Arctic Circle and halted all movement on the Southern Front was beginning to die a slow death. The insane shrieks no longer whispered in First Rank Lu Po’s ears. He could think again, even though it was dreadfully cold outside the cabin that he and his White Tigers had huddled in during the blizzard.

Lu opened the front door and stepped outside into a frozen wasteland. Ice and snow encrusted the surrounding pines. A thousands branches lay on the virgin snow or were buried under tons of white. The air burned going down his lungs. Each step was a sharp crunch of his boots on the devilish substance. Lu never wanted to see snow again. Once this campaign was over and he took his discharge, he would live in the South Pacific. He would bake in the sunlight and luxuriate in warmth forever.

“What are you waiting for?” he told the Commandos emerging from the log cabin. “Don’t you want to be heroes?”

The White Tigers wore their white combat suits. After a hot morning breakfast, they cradled their weapons.

“The storm hurt us,” said Lu, “but it will have hurt the partisans even worse.”

“They’re native to this land and will have known what to do,” Wang said.

“Maybe. The key is that they’re not elite soldiers like us. If any of them were caught in the open, they’ll be frozen or half-dead by now. It’s time to finish our chore and teach these hardheaded Americans the price of not knowing when they’re beaten. You heard Command. They want every one of them hanged. All the supplies must get through to the front. The final push is about to begin, and we have to make sure our soldiers have enough ammo and fuel to smash through Anchorage.”

It was a speech, and Lu was more than tired of those. It was time to find and hang these tick-like partisans sucking off Chinese strength.

***

Half a day later, Lu knelt beside a guttered fire. His men had found six frozen bodies nearby. The Americans were stiff like boards. These bastards had been caught in the storm. He could almost pity them. After examining the tracks of the survivors and their direction of travel, he followed until the forward scouts spotted three unburied candy wrappers.

“Someone was careless,” said Wang. “Usually they bury these.”

“How many do you think are left in this band?” asked Lu.

Wang shrugged. “Four to six would be my guess.” He frowned as the tracks disappeared deeper into the woods. “Do we follow the trail?”

“Of course,” said Lu. “We follow their tracks until we find and kill them.”

***

“I don’t know, Bill,” said Carlos. “This position is awfully exposed.” They were on a pine-covered hill overlooking the Number One Highway. Their tracks led deeper into the shadowed forest.

An exhausted Bill Harris couldn’t feel his feet anymore. He knew they were black with advanced frostbite. Gangrene would set in soon unless they were amputated. He didn’t want to go on living without feet. He knew suicide was wrong from God’s perspective. But this wasn’t suicide. He was fighting for his country.

Bill was tired. His teeth chattered all the time and he wondered if he was beginning to hallucinate. A presence had been with him during the trek here, a light off the corner of his eye. He thought it might have been God, but when he’d turned, nothing had been there. This storm….

“Bill, you okay?” asked Carlos.

“Sure,” Bill whispered. His strength was failing. It was so cold, his feet—

“We’d better think about finding shelter,” Carlos said.

“No,” whispered Bill, with his eyes feeling as if they were burning up. Feebly, he shook his head. The storm…before the storm he’d seen too many corpses dangling from the pines. Those were American men and women, and children, too. The Chinese hanged everyone.

When he’d sat huddled under a lean-to during the blizzard, as ice howled around them, he’d remembered crows pecking at the corpses’ eyes. That had done something to him. He’d focused on that during the ice storm and had started a fire with the old hunter’s lighter. The hunter had died….

“Bill,” said Carlos. “We can’t go on like this.”

“The corpses,” Bill whispered.

“You ought to rest.”

“The corpses,” Bill whispered again. He’d seen more today dangling like frozen icicles. It had filled him with the same anger as when he’d watched the T-66s destroying Stan Higgins’s company of Abrams tanks. That had caused him then to wire grenades to a sticky bomb. He’d charged the Chinese monster. There was something in him that maybe only Stan Higgins knew about. It came upon him after losing game after game. Too much defeat would ignite a fire in him. He couldn’t talk then. He would be too angry, too wound up and driven to win. Then he’d drive for the hoop, making his lay-ups. Then his three-point shots swooshed in.

The anger, the fire, after knowing that he was going to lose his dead feet…it had ignited him seeing those frozen bodies dangling from the pines. He’d been a free man all his life. He didn’t plan to play the slave now to some invader, especially not with amputated feet! There were times you had to fight. It was better to fight on your knees than being a slave. But it was best to fight standing while you still had feet.

“That’s what I’m going to do today,” Bill whispered.

“What’s that, Pastor?” asked Carlos.

“Here,” said Bill, indicating the hill. “Here’s where I’m making my stand.”

They were on a hill in the shadows of ice-laden pines. Below was the snow-packed Number One Highway.

“You take the others and go,” Bill whispered. “Just leave me the M2 and the ammo.”

Carlos stared at him. “If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

“Choppers can get us pretty easy if we’re up here,” the youthful pilot said, adding his opinion as he always did.

“With the M2 Browning….” Bill smiled as he might have after making a winning three-point shot.

“You don’t think we’re going to make it out alive, do you?” asked Carlos.

“I don’t know,” said Bill. His eyes felt hot again. It put splotches before his vision. “I’ve seen a lot of corpses lately hanging from trees. I figure the Chinese are killing off all the real Americans. I don’t know if I want to be around once those people are gone.”

Carlos nodded thoughtfully. “If we’re going to die, let’s make it worth something, huh?”

“I’m not committing suicide,” Bill said feverishly. “I’m just sick of seeing those corpses. And my feet—I’m going to hit back as hard as I know how.”

“What about your feet?” the pilot asked.

“Nothing,” said Bill. He shouldn’t have said anything about them. It was a mistake.

“Do you hear that?” asked Carlos, his voice muffled by his scarf.

Everyone in the small band listened.

“Those sound like trucks,” the pilot said.

“Go,” whispered Bill. He crouched by his M2 and used his freezing fingers to fumble at the ammo belt, soon racking a bullet into the firing chamber. He looked up at the others. They had intense frowns, those that had pulled down their scarves. “Go,” he said again. “Save yourselves to fight later.”

“Look,” said Carlos, pointing.

They did, including Bill. A snowplow appeared from around a bend. Snow and ice roared from it as it cleared the highway. Behind the snowplow were Chinese Army trucks and ordinary commercial vehicles, including a tanker.

“They must be running out of trucks,” said Carlos, “if they’ve begun stealing ours.”

Bill had a crazy idea. He was so desperately cold. He wanted to see a fire, a real blaze. He forgot about his friends as he tried to judge distances to the tanker.

“What was that?” the pilot asked, turning around toward the pines behind them. Before anyone could answer, assault-rifle fire cut the pilot down. He crumbled onto the snow.

“Ambush!” cried Carlos. He twisted around and raised his rifle, managing to get off three shots. He shot into the trees they had come out of earlier. Then a well-placed round made a hole in his forehead. He slumped to the cold snow beside the pilot.

“The Alamo,” whispered Bill. He ignored the gunshots from the pines, his back aimed at the hidden enemy. He concentrated as he sighted upon the shining tanker with its metal storage unit. The tanker was near the front of the convoy line. Then a bullet smashed through his shoulder blade, pitching him onto the M2. For a moment, he lay in shock.

I’m hit, Bill realized. He’d tossed away the durasteel armor a day before the storm. It had been too heavy to lug around. Now he wished he was still wearing it.

With a groan, Bill dragged himself upright behind the M2 Browning. He grabbed the V-shaped “butterfly” trigger, swiveled the heavy machinegun and sighted the tanker. It was far away. That didn’t matter now, he didn’t have any time left to be fancy. He felt lightheaded, but he felt sure he could make the shot, just like a distant three-pointer in basketball. He pressed both thumbs on the buttons and heard the heavy hammering sound.

Tracer rounds hosed out in a line. Bill adjusted as he held his body stiffly. Another bullet slammed into him, but he kept his position and only grunted. His incendiary rounds smoked against the tanker’s metal skin. Then the greatest fireball of his life mushroomed up in an orange roar of flame.

Militia Sergeant Bill Harris’s eyes were shining. Then his head exploded in a rain of blood, brain and skull-bone as a White Tiger dum-dum bullet ended his existence in this world.

***

Lu Po stared at the dead Americans. Down below, the fuel tanker still burned. It had backed-up traffic as explosions still cooked off from other trucks. The snowplow was on its side, the dead driver hanging out of the broken windshield.

“High Command won’t be pleased with this,” said Wang.

“Fools,” said Lu. “Why did they put the tanker so near the snowplow?”

“Maybe they need the fuel up at the front.”

Lu shrugged. It didn’t matter now.

“What about these corpses?” Wang asked, pointing with his rifle at the dead Americans.

“Hang them like the rest and put on the placards,” said Lu. “If we have to kill every one of these Americans before they learn, we’ll do it.”

Wang shook his head. “They’re like rats. They just keep appearing. Don’t they know when they’re beaten?”

Lu had no answer for that as he watched the tanker burn.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

Captain Stan Higgins and Brigadier Ramos trudged through the snow. They struggled through big drifts to a nearby overpass.

The blizzard had left a heavy covering of snow, making it a seeming pristine wonderland. To the far north of the city rose the majestic mountains of the Alaska Range. To the immediate north were the military bases. To the immediate east was the Chugach Foothills, part of the Chugach State Park. It was the third-largest park in America and comprised nearly a half-million acres. Cook Inlet lay to the west, while ten miles from the heart of downtown Anchorage to the south was Potter Marsh.

It was a gray morning, with heavy clouds overhead. The wind whistled, but it didn’t howl or shriek. Bits of snow swirled, but not the whiteout that had brought everything to a standstill for the past few days.

The airport was on the opposite side of the city as the approaching Chinese. The main arteries leaving Anchorage were also across the city from the front line.

Stan’s three Abrams were ready, joining the skeletal remains of Brigadier Ramos’s 1st Stryker Brigade. The attrition of battle had whittled the brigade down to little more than a company of soldiers and machines. The 4th Airborne Brigade was gone, its dead officers, NCOs and soldiers scattered along the Number One Highway, having made the Chinese pay for each mile they advanced. Few Alaskan National Guardsmen remained, although a higher percentage of Militia had made it back to the city. They had broken more quickly, and run away faster. Some had regrouped, bitter about the war and their seeming lack of courage. Those men were determined to halt the Chinese now. Others cowered somewhere in the city, often hating themselves because of their fear.

During these past weeks, others in Anchorage and around the State had picked up their weapons and reported to the officers in charge of defending the city. A trickle of reinforcements from the bottom states had continued to enter the city from Fairbanks, often leaving for the approaching front. Now that front was just outside the city limits.

Two new laser battalions had set up their heavy equipment at the slowly repaired airport. One of those was a Canadian battalion. The lasers would make any Chinese aircraft and helicopter assaults pay a bitter price if they attempted to fly over the coming battlefield. The surviving American airmen knew all about the Chinese Red Arrow anti-missile rounds, as well as the bigger SAMs the enemy had brought forward with each lunge closer to Anchorage.

Despite the hard weeks of battle, the Chinese still had more numbers, superior tech, weapons and training. What they lacked was reserves of munitions, fuel and even more soldiers. Worse, they were about to attempt the hardest type of warfare possible: storming a city.

“We’ll make this their Stalingrad,” Ramos told Stan.

The two officers had crawled to an overpass, using special trench telescopes to peer over the earthen lip and study the enemy line beyond.

“Are you sure you have your history right?” Stan asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The Germans almost drove the Russians out of Stalingrad. They were about to win the fight, when the Russians launched their biggest assault yet. The Russians smashed the Rumanians and Italians holding the extended front leading to the city. The Russians thereby encircled and trapped the German army fighting in the city. Where is America’s counter-offensive to save us from the Chinese?”

“Are you saying we can’t win?” Ramos asked.

“No. I’m just not sure I like your analogy.”

Ramos was quiet for a time. Then he glanced at Stan. “Intelligence says the Chinese have four to five times our number in fighting men. It’s probably just a matter of time before they take the city and send for Army formations from mainland China.”

“What does HQ say?” asked Stan. “Have they spotted new Chinese troop convoys crossing the Pacific?”

“Not yet. But it seems inevitable.”

Stan pulled down his trench scope and rolled onto his back. He wiped his mouth with his gloved hand. “We have problems, but so do they.”

“How do you know that?” asked Ramos, who continued to use the scope. The scope had a right angle at the top and was similar in principle to a submarine’s periscope, thus allowing a man to study the enemy without exposing himself to direct fire.

“Military history tells me that,” said Stan. “We just see our problems because we’re so focused on them. Our problems here are big, no doubt about that. But the enemy has his own set of problems. Sometimes it’s just a matter of whose will fails or whose nerves crumble first.”

“My nerves are close to shot,” said Ramos. “We don’t really have anything that can handle the T-66s. Fortunately, the Chinese don’t seem to have a lot of them, and that’s something. But I’ve read the reports. It seems the Chinese have scoured each battlefield, dragging any wrecked T-66 to the repair vehicles. That’s a serious problem when fighting a rearguard action as we’ve been doing for weeks. We always leave the battlefield in their possession. Their repair vehicles can pick up the broken tanks while we leave ours behind.”

“I’ve been thinking about those T-66s ever since we faced them in Cooper Landing,” Stan said. “I think the answer is obvious. We lure the monsters into the city and try to separate them from their infantry. Then you let my tanks take them on one at a time.”

“The T-66s will crush your Abrams.”

“In time they will,” said Stan. “So we have to make sure we take them out first.”

Ramos lowered his scope. “How can you sound so confident? I don’t get that, Professor.”

Stan shrugged. “It’s simple. If seven tri-turreted tanks come after me, I have to destroy seven tanks. If I destroy six, I lose. So I’ll try to destroy all seven and win.”

“If you’d told me that a few weeks ago, I’d have agreed,” said Ramos. “Now….”

Stan glanced at Ramos. The man still had dark circles around his eyes. The brigadier had fought hard, bitterly hard in Moose Pass and later, but now he was exhausted from the endless battles.

“Have you even been home to sleep?” asked Stan.

“Didn’t have the time. There’s too much to do.”

“You ought to take a little time off this morning. The Chinese won’t attack yet. My guess is they’ll start by pounding us with artillery first. Use that time to recoup. We need you at your best, sir, not filled with morbid doubts.”

Ramos breathed the cold morning air. “Let’s get back to our vehicles. Then I’ll see.”

PRCN SUNG

Admiral Ling spoke to the Chairman via his computer screen in the supercarrier’s ready room. Commodore Yen sat out of sight to the side.

The Chairman appeared angry. Ling was weary and his bones ached this morning.

“I do not understand this delay,” the Chairman was saying. “The Army’s cross-polar taskforce has achieved its first objective, the town of Dead Horse and its accompanying oilfields. With the deep discoveries, it is presently the largest single oilfield in the world. The Navy with its lavish fleet and precision-drilled naval infantry has crawled these past weeks through an American wildness playground. Unlike the cross-polar soldiers, you have modern roads to carry your supplies, near total air superiority and more numbers of trained soldiers than the enemy has. Yet what do I hear? You constantly plead for more ships, more munitions, more soldiers and more fuel, always more, more, more.”

“I am pleased with the northern victory of Chinese arms,” Admiral Ling said. “Yet if I could point out, sir, they had enough fuel to—”

“Don’t speak to me about fuel!” the Chairman said. “A nuclear-tipped torpedo struck the polar taskforce. Snowmobile raiders afterward hit other supply dumps. Percentage-wise, I am told they’ve lost much more of their reserves than you ever had.”

“Sir,” said Ling, “most of our fuel requirements go to the fleet. The land—”

“Why haven’t you protected your tankers better?”

Admiral Ling hesitated. This was an odd situation for the richest oil-nation in the world. Because of Siberia, Chinese oil refineries brimmed with petrochemicals: with diesel, kerosene and gasoline. What the Navy lacked was enough transport tankers to bring those fuels across thousands of kilometers of ocean to the battlefield. The Chinese merchant marine was too small and until only a few years ago, the Navy had never been designed as a blue-water fleet. As it was, the supply line had been stretched. Then the Americans had continually destroyed tankers, zeroing in on them with ruthless efficiency. That had created real difficulties. The torturous land route through the Kenai Peninsula only added to the supply nightmare.

“I have tried to protect our tankers, sir,” Ling told the Chairman. “The Americans are cunning, however. They have attacked our fuel transports, preferring to destroy them to carriers. Through espionage, CIA spies must have learned about our fuel troubles.”

“I hope you are not accusing anyone, Admiral.”

“Sir?” asked Ling, wondering what the Chairman was driving at.

The old man in the wheelchair leaned forward, staring at Ling through the screen. “My nephew has spoken to me.”

The Vice-Admiral, Ling thought to himself. Nepotism has crippled the war effort. I should have never agreed to this command while saddled with his fool of a nephew.

“My nephew has informed me that you gave him the toughest route and yet you withheld the needed soldiers,” the Chairman said.

“Sir, I must object. It is your nephew’s incompetence that has cost us dearly.”

“What are you saying?” the Chairman asked ominously.

Commodore Yen shook his head, but the bile in Ling from the Vice-Admiral’s blunders welled up in a rush.

“Your nephew first lost all his helicopters trying to storm Seward,” Ling said. “Next, his drive up Moose Pass has become a study in wasteful frontal charges. I could use those dead soldiers now as we attempt to grind down the remaining Americans. Then his bungling charge through the Junction that entangled our troops at the precise moment I—”

“I have heard enough,” the Chairman said. “This slander mars your reputation. You will not grind the enemy. That is not how you win. You must shock him, bewilder him by the power of your assault. Storm Anchorage with Chinese fury as General Nung took Dead Horse. Then I shall send you Army reinforcements.”

“I would rather that you send me fuel first, sir.”

“Bah!” the Chairman said. “My nephew has assured me he could take Anchorage like that.” The old man snapped his fingers.

Admiral Ling’s eyes bulged. He opened his mouth.

“Sir,” whispered an obviously worried Commodore Yen.

Admiral Ling turned to his friend and advisor, noticing the worry on Yen’s face. Ling closed his mouth, even as a vein on the side of his head pulsed with shame.

“Is there someone else with you in the room?” asked the Chairman.

Admiral Ling spoke in a mumble. “I shall take Anchorage, sir. I shall give China another glorious victory, another superlative feat of arms as I achieved in Taiwan.”

“…do you promise this?” asked the Chairman.

“It is already done,” said Ling, his humiliation turning to anger. Yet he was still practiced enough to contain his words. For the sake of his family in China, he must attempt to please this old, old man in the wheelchair.

“Take Anchorage and all your sins will be forgiven,” the Chairman was saying.

“Yes, sir,” said Ling.

“Fail in your appointed task—”

“I have already said it is done, sir.”

Instead of anger at being interrupted, a slow smile spread across the Chairman’s face. “So you have, Admiral. So you have.”

In an instant, the screen blanked out.

Admiral Ling bowed his head. This was inexcusable. How could the Chairman speak to him this way? After all that he had done for China and done for the Chairman—no. This was unbearable, an insult. He turned to Commodore Yen. “That creature the Vice-Admiral….” Ling’s humiliation was too much now for speech.

“Sir,” Yen said, “You have given your word concerning Anchorage. How can you be so certain you can conquer the Americans?”

Admiral Ling ignored him. He adjusted his computer screen as he studied the situation. He kept noticing the huge fuel depots in Anchorage. The Americans had blown the Seward depot, but the ones here were different. These supplied the Americans. Therefore, the enemy could not afford to blow them. If he could capture the depots, it would solve his fuel problem.

Ling began to nod. He brought up battle charts and force readiness numbers. “I beginning to see the way,” he said.

“Sir?” Yen asked.

“The Chairman has shown me the way. We must storm Anchorage before the Americans rush more reinforcements into the city. Our soldiers rested during the storm. We will now rush forward more supplies as our soldiers use speed, violence and fury to capture the Anchorage fuel depots.”

“They are on the other side of the city, sir,” Yen said.

“With the T-66s we shall smash through everything the Americans put in our way,” Ling said. “Call the ground commanders. I have new orders to give them.”

“May I suggest you first wait an hour, sir?” a worried-sounding Yen asked. “You have…endured hard words today. Maybe it is time for reflection first and action soon thereafter.”

Ling looked up and stared at the careful Commodore. “No you may not suggest such a thing. What you may do is obey my orders.”

Yen’s neck stiffened. After a moment, he stood and saluted. “It shall be as you say, sir.”

***

Some time later, Ling read a brief report from his chief ground commander. The Chinese infantry officers before Anchorage had received their orders as the last of the supplies at the front were divided up. More ammo and food came to the front at a trickle, as the majority of the Number One Highway was still clogged with snow and ice. The officers returned to their sub-commanders, who in turn explained the attack orders to the junior officers. The junior officers spoke to the NCOs. Those gruff men told their soldiers how tomorrow they were going to bring glory to Greater China, win the campaign and the right for each of them to screw the girl of their choice once they returned home as heroes.

BEIJING, P.R.C.

Deep underground in his bunker under Mao Square, the Chairman spoke with Jian Shihong.

“Did you listen to our conversation earlier?” the Chairman asked.

Jian nodded. He’d been ordered to listen. Didn’t the Chairman remember?

“That is how you light a fire under an ancient warrior,” the Chairman said. “Niu Ling conquered Taiwan for me. Now he will give me the rest of Alaska.”

“May I ask you a delicate question, sir?”

“You have given me the oilfields, Jian. You may ask me anything.”

“Did your nephew really say those things, sir?”

Some of the Chairman’s mirth evaporated as he stared at Jian.

I shouldn’t have asked that, Jian told himself. How could I have been so stupid?

“Yes,” the Chairman finally told him, “my nephew said those things.”

“Given that is true, sir, shouldn’t we place your nephew in charge of operations?” There, that ought to satisfy his touchiness.

“Don’t be absurd,” the Chairman said. “Now go,” he said, waving a feeble hand. “I’m tired. We shall talk tomorrow.”

A steel door swished up, and two Lion Guards looked in, giving Jian a hard stare.

Jian wanted to gush his apologies. He was still surprised about General Nung and his victory at Dead Horse. That victory—the other Ruling Committee members now gave Jian greater respect because of it. He knew, however, that the Chairman loved results, not weak words like ‘sorry’ or ‘I shall do better.’ By his response, the Chairman had shown himself sensitive about his family, particularly his inept nephew the Vice-Admiral. Jian would remember that.

“Good day to you, sir.” Jian said. “To victory in Anchorage!”

The irritated Chairman waved him away. The interview was over.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna Chen rubbed her eyes as she sat at her desk. She was exhausted from too much work and a growing sense of guilt for what she had unleashed.

She’d moved out of her West Wing cubicle and no longer worked for the Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor. She no longer worked for Colin Green at all. Instead, she had her own West Wing office as the new Chinese Affairs Advisor to the President. She had a three-person staff and direct access to the President. During the continuing crisis, Clark spoke to her an average of three times a day, and that didn’t include the meetings.

Her guilt concerned the nuclear attack in the pristine Arctic environment. Now there had been a second attack. She dreaded the Chairman’s response.

It surprised her Clark hadn’t told her about the latest nuclear attack. She’d learned about it through Alfredo Diaz of the NSA. He’d given her another memory stick, the information only hours old.

Anna clicked a button, replaying the information on her computer. A dark image leaped onto the screen. She was viewing this through the shoulder-cam of a 1st SFG A-Detachment master sergeant. By the shot, the Green Berets soldier must be laying on the pack ice. There were lights in the distance: a vast Chinese supply dump.

“It’s their main base,” the master sergeant whispered, likely into a microphone. “I count thirty snowtanks leaving it.”

Anna listened carefully, studying nuances this time.

“Give us the targeting coordinates.” The voice belonged to the USS Atlanta’s radio operator.

“Hey Sarge!” someone unseen said. Anna assumed it was another Green Berets. “You hear that?”

The scene changed, showing the breathtakingly beautiful night sky with its Northern Lights. The master sergeant must have looked up. Anna heard the unmistakable whomp-whomp of a helicopter.

“They’ve spotted us, Sarge!” A snowmobile started. “Come on! Let’s go!”

“You go,” the master sergeant said. “I’ve still got a job to do.”

Anna wanted to weep as she shook her head. No matter how many times she heard this, she still hoped somehow in her heart that he could escape.

Other snowmobiles whined into life. None of the others tried to argue the master sergeant out of his grim decision. That amazed Anna most of all. The others drove off, the sounds of their engines quickly dwindling.

“That’s it,” the radio operator said after a time. “We have it. Don’t wait around, Sarge.”

Onscreen, Anna witnessed the Chinese lights again, the distant supply dump. That changed as the master sergeant must have looked up. By the sounds, an enemy chopper moved toward him. Then there were sparks in the night. Anna realized now those were Chinese machineguns firing from the helicopter. She heard icy crunching sounds a few seconds later, the bullets striking.

Anna hunched closer, listening carefully.

“Damnit,” the master sergeant said. He must have rolled onto his back. Anna saw the barrel of a weapon appear as it aimed skyward. A second later, the master sergeant grunted, and the scene changed so Anna stared at the ice. In time, his blood trickled into view.

She fast-forwarded. In the distance was the sound of many vehicles.

The Chinese must be fleeing the base.

Suddenly, a nuclear explosion occurred and the video picture shook. It became intensely bright and a shrieking wind began. That wind howled across the pack ice until it stopped abruptly as the video ended.

“It is a terrible thing we do,” a man with a deep voice said.

Startled, Anna looked around. Tanaka, her bodyguard, stood just inside her West Wing office. She’d asked Colin Green to transfer Tanaka to her service.

“You should have knocked,” she said.

Tanaka stepped nearer, his eyes locked onto hers.

Something had changed in Anna. She saw in his eyes that he thought she was beautiful. If she looked closely enough, she could see her reflection in his pupils. Once, having a man look at her like this would have made her shiver in dread. Now, with the things she’d been through….

Anna stood up and approached Tanaka. Then she stepped even closer, putting her arms around him as he hugged her. She lifted her head, her lips pressing against his. Then she opened her mouth, and their tongues touched. Anna shivered, but not in dread. Was this love? She didn’t know, maybe. Instead of worrying about it, she continued to kiss the iron-muscled Tanaka.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

Stan was in the forward lines as dawn came late the next day as it had been for some time.

There was activity in the Chinese line. Then 200mm self-propelled tubes began to fire. It was thunderous. From a drone’s cam, Stan saw a tank-like vehicle with a long artillery tube shake and rock. The enemy used computer-directed fire control, with target acquisition and laser ranging. Most fired HE shells, High Explosive. Others shot HEAT with guidance systems for homing in on bunkers and command posts. Many had proximity fuses for creating an airburst over the trenches. The falling shells hammered Stan’s area. He crouched in a foxhole, covering his head.

Enemy, barrage missile-launchers added their rockets. Stan could tell by the sound. The rockets were lower velocity than the shells and therefore had lighter casings, able to add more high explosive per projectile. The missile launchers also saturated an area faster, hitting a place in seconds what would take an equal amount of artillery six minutes to achieve.

It was a sweeping, pounding attack, and it lasted a half hour. Afterward, Chinese shells created dense clouds of smoke between the American defenses and the Chinese. Through experience, Stan knew the clouds would last twenty minutes or more. They would also shield the Chinese from thermal sensors.

By his radio, Stan heard the word from a surviving CP. All across the front, the Chinese naval brigades were moving. Marauder tanks led the charge, with IFVs following behind.

Now an American artillery company began to fire. They had arrived from Texas via air to Fairbanks, and had taken the train to Anchorage. Their gun tubes fired artillery-emplaced minefields. The tubes fired and moved to a new location, hopefully before the Chinese counter-artillery could zero in on them. The Americans rained the selected approaches with mines, both anti-personnel and vehicle.

Stan stood up and checked his assault rifle. He had to get back to his tanks. Big oily clouds of smoke billowed before him.

The Chinese charged against a thin crust of American defense located in the outskirts of the city. By the sounds, some of the attackers moved through the emplaced minefields. Others emerged from the choking smoke, looking unscathed.

At that point, the true battle took place. Remaining National Guardsmen, Militiamen and U.S. Army soldiers fought the battle-hardened naval infantry from the East. The Americans hid behind rocks. They waited in buildings and foxholes. The Chinese crawled across the snow or they raced from rock, to shell-hole, to the ruins of a Burger Palace and then to a clump of scarred trees, firing all the time.

Each side had a bewildering array of weapons. Soldiers fired assault rifles, light machineguns, heavy machineguns, threw and fired grenades. The whoosh of recoilless rifles mingled with the sharp retort of exploding mines, often launching the Chinese attackers into the air. The whine of falling trench-mortar rounds, the roar of RPGs, LAWs rockets and the loud slamming noises of ATGMs added to the horror of long, squirting jets of fire hissing from flamethrowers. When the Chinese finally reached American strongpoints, desperate men fired pistols. They stuck enemy soldiers with bayonets. They swung spades whose edges were sharper than axes.

Stan gripped a bloody entrancing tool, having helped clear a trench of attacking Chinese.

Into the tangled mix came helicopters and bombers. Defensive lasers stabbed into the gray sky. Red Arrow shells zoomed upward. Wyvern missiles exploded and the last of the Blowdart tubes expelled their deadly cargos. The caldron of war boiled in Anchorage.

The final battle had begun. The defenders fought for their homes, their mothers, fathers, children and wives. The attackers surely yearned for an end to the icy campaign. Stan knew that many thousands of young Chinese sought marriage permits via the fastest manner possible in China: through martial feats of madness. It was war in the worst sense, man killing man, with the fate of a continent resting on the outcome.

***

Later in the day, the Chinese broke into the city, but the Americans still fought with bitter tenacity. They used the concrete buildings, firing from rooftops and windows. The tactic took a grim toll on the Chinese, until finally the remaining T-66s clanked into battle.

So far, they had been kept in reserve. Now an approach had been cleared to the city and the monstrous, tri-turreted tanks moved. Previous shells and near-miss rockets throughout the weeks had scarred each. From captured enemy soldiers, American Military Intelligence and then Stan had learned that many T-66s had received emergency repairs. An entire Chinese Army regiment had been shipped to Alaska, forty units of the once experimental tank. Like most such tanks, there had been teething problems only discovered in the heat of battle. Weeks of war had brought wear and tear, and that had caused many mechanical breakdowns. Day and night, the mechanics had slaved in order to fix the problems.

It was late in the campaign and after a grim arctic storm. Now, fifteen of the big tanks clanked to add their weight to the Chinese assault. That fifteen came was a testament to Chinese technological effort and hard work.

Fifteen monster tanks used together in close coordination began to blow apart the concrete buildings. American ATGMs scored hits, but no kills. Any Army Rangers trying to crawl near with land mines received a hail of gunfire. The Chinese advance moved deeper into the city.

***

“Are you ready?” Major Philips asked Stan.

During one of the lulls, Stan had made it back to his tanks. Now, several blocks ahead, the fighting was intense. Back here in the financial district, Stan’s three Abrams waited beside five smaller Strykers. Three of the Strykers were armed with grenade launchers. The last two had TOW2 ATGMs.

Stan had expected to work with Ramos, but Philips had informed him the brigadier was presently engaged elsewhere.

Stan hated the T-66s, but he had tasted greater victory against them than anyone else in Alaska still living. “I don’t know about ready,” he said, “but I’ll fight.”

“You won’t fight alone,” a man said.

Stan turned, and he blinked in surprise. It was Sergeant Jackson of the Anchorage Police Department. The police officer wore durasteel body-armor with a combat helmet. An assault rifle was slung on his shoulder.

“What’s going on?” asked Stan. “What are you doing here?”

“The same thing as you,” Jackson said. “I’m fighting for my home.”

“The police are trained at riot control,” Philips said. “It means they’re trained in group action. That should make them better at this than just a group of Alaskans picking up their hunting rifles and taking potshots at the enemy.”

“I know you and I have had our differences,” Jackson said. “That’s over now. We let your dad go along with others. He immediately volunteered.”

“Volunteered for what?” Stan asked.

“It was Brigadier Ramos’s idea,” Philips said. “He spoke last night with General Sims. Afterward, Ramos asked for volunteers among his surviving crews and Militiamen. There weren’t enough. So he went to the jail looking for others. The brigadier is taking a makeshift ferry and crossing over to Hope.”

“Why do that?” asked Stan.

“Both Sims and Ramos agreed that a behind-the-lines raid might hurt the enemy supply situation enough to slow him down,” Philips said. “At this point, anything is worth a try. I also think Ramos went because he hates city fighting and much prefers to maneuver against the enemy.”

“Tell me about my dad,” Stan said.

“Sims learned about a huge supply convoy crawling up the Number One Highway,” Philips said. “Our jets won’t be able to fight through the Chinese combat air patrols to get to it. Ramos believes that we can still hit them guerilla-style. Since it was his idea and it’s his specialty, he felt obligated to lead the attack.”

“My dad went with them on this one-way mission?” asked Stan.

“He didn’t have to go,” Jackson said. “We let him out and he was free to go anywhere. He said he wanted to fight.”

Stan thought about that. After a time, he nodded. “That’s my dad,” he said. Mack Higgins was a fighter.

“Okay, Sergeant,” Stan said. “My dad pointed a gun at you once. You could have held that against him. Instead, you let him go. Thanks.” Stan held out his hand. With the Chinese in Anchorage, it was time to bury their differences with each other.

Sergeant Jackson accepted and they shook hands.

“Let’s stop the Chinese,” Stan said.

“I second that,” Jackson said.

“Here’s how we’re going to attempt it,” Philips said.

***

It took a half hour before Stan’s radio crackled, “Here’s our chance.” It was Philips calling.

“Ready?” Stan asked his crew.

“Roger that,” said Jose from the gunner’s seat.

“Heck yeah!” Hank said, his fingers flexing at the Abrams’s steering controls.

“Let’s do it,” Stan radioed back.

“Head up Lincoln Street,” Philips radioed. “It’s coming fast. The T-66 is chasing several Anchorage PD.”

“Okay, this is it,” Stan told Jose. “We have to get close, almost on its ass,” he told Hank.

“I’ll remember to thank a police officer the next time he writes me a ticket,” Jose said. “I wouldn’t want a T-66 on my butt.”

Stan shoved up out of the hatch. He had his commander’s microphone jutting in front of his mouth. He wore durasteel body-armor, and he listened to the Abrams’s heavy clank as the tank moved into position. City buildings rose all around them. The M1A2s were great tanks—twenty years ago. Now the T-66 held the technological edge, and it was coming up Lincoln Street toward them.

Through his microphone, Stan shouted orders to the other two Abrams as they took up ambush positions nearby. Farther behind on the street, Philips’s Strykers waited to act as further bait if needed.

Then three police officers in combat gear sprinted around the corner. Stan was close enough to wave to Sergeant Jackson. The officer clutched his assault rifle as total concentration filled his face. Behind him—Stan heard heavy treads crushing pavement. Then the side of an old brick building exploded masonry. A monster tank burst into sight.

“Inch us back,” whispered Stan.

Hank did, moving the Abrams behind a building and taking the T-66 out of sight.

What happened next was hidden from Stan as he waited. Chinese machineguns chattered. A man shouted in English, no doubt an Anchorage police officer. Then a TOW missile streaked up the street. By the sound, it splashed against the T-66’s heavy armor.

“Come on,” Stan whispered. “Keep attacking.”

Then he heard the enemy tank. It fired two 175mm guns. They were two deafening booms. The shells whooshed past his ambush site and down the street at the Strykers.

At the Stryker bait, Stan thought. He didn’t hear the sound of exploding vehicles. So maybe Philips’s bait had moved quickly enough to survive.

“It’s coming,” Stan heard Philips say through his headset.

“Get ready!” Stan shouted through the hatch.

Seconds later, a huge stone gray-colored Chinese T-66 moved in front of them. Stan slid down the hatch and slammed the steel lid into place. At the same moment, Jose fired a sabot round. A terrific explosion rocked the Abrams.

“Are we hit?” Stan shouted, his ears ringing from the sound.

“I don’t think so,” said Jose.

Stan thrust his forehead against his scope. He peered at a burning T-66.

“You killed this one from point blank range,” Philips said over the radio. “But there’s another two coming, so you’d better move. We don’t want to lose your Abrams just yet.”

“Let’s go,” Stan told Hank. “We’re moving to live again and fight in another place.”

“Roger that,” said Hank, as he began revving the M1A2’s engine.

“Major Philips,” Stan said over the radio.

“Yes?”

“Tell Sergeant Jackson and his fellow police officers that they did good, very good.”

“Will do,” Philips said. “Now let’s get moving to the next ambush site.”

JUNCTION ONE/ NINE, ALASKA

Under Ramos’s command, a few Army soldiers, Alaska Militiamen with hard-case State prisoners took a ferry and crossed the trickery Turnagain Arm of the Cook Inlet. In jeeps, snowmobiles and four-wheel drive pickups they overwhelmed the few Chinese soldiers in Hope. Then they moved down Highway One to the Junction of Highway Nine and Moose Pass. There they met the lead elements, including snowplows, of the giant supply convoy heading for Anchorage.

***

“Where do they come from?” shouted Wang.

First Rank Lu Po lay in the snow beside his friend. Behind them, trucks and transports burned. Chinese helicopters were on their way. On the hill before them, American TOW2s continued to flash across the distance and hit yet more munitions trucks, causing tremendous explosions.

“We earn our glory now,” Lu told his White Tigers in their combat suits.

“There’s no more glory here,” said Wang. “High Command will skin us for allowing the supply convoy’s destruction.”

“Nonsense,” said Lu. “The Americans hit part of the convoy, not all. We must give them enemy heads or High Command will demand ours. We will fade into the trees and flank the hill.”’

“By that time the convoy will be destroyed,” said Wang.

“Follow me,” said Lu, as he rose in a bent crouch and sprinted for the trees.

***

Brigadier Ramos heard the Chinese bombers. He leaped off the altered pickup truck and sprinted for the trees.

The truck was called a technical. The term had been derived in Somalia during the 1990s when certain non-governmental agencies had paid gunmen to protect them. The gunmen were paid out of a technical assistance grant. The chief fighting vehicles were modified Toyota pickups, and soon the word technical came to be applied to any machinegun-carrying truck. Such technicals had been used to great effect by the nomads of Chad when they’d fought the Libyans. The Libyans had used Soviet tanks and hardware. The Chad militiamen primarily used Toyota pickups with an M2 Browning, a recoilless rifle or a light anti-air gun bolted on. In the Sahara Desert, the light trucks with their great mobility had given the Chad militiamen the victory. That victory had caused many to dub the fight the Great Toyota War.

Today, Hector Ramos’s hastily-gathered technicals had hurt the enemy. Now Chinese jets streaked above. Small canisters tumbled from them. Ramos buried his head in the snow as the canisters hit and whooshed with jellied napalm. Heat blazed against his skin. The canisters had missed the center part of their team.

Ramos began to rise when he heard a noise behind him. He shouted, scrambled to his feet and cut down several Chinese soldiers with his assault rifle. They’d been about to kill an old man.

“Are you Colonel Higgins?” Ramos shouted.

The old man blinked at him. Finally, he nodded.

“Follow me!’ shouted Ramos. “We have more enemy to kill.”

“Aliens,” the old man said.

“Right!” shouted Ramos. “They’re alien invaders.”

The two men sprinted to a pickup. The front windshield had been blown away, the glass killing the passengers. Ramos and Mick Higgins dragged the corpses out.

“I’ll drive,” said Ramos.

Mack grunted as he climbed into the pickup bed. Below were burning Chinese vehicles. To the side of the hill—

“Over there!” shouted Mack. “I see Chinese soldiers in the trees.”

“Those are White Tiger Commandos,” Ramos said. He started the pickup, revved it and shouted, “Are you ready?”

“Go!” Mack shouted.

Ramos floored the accelerator and cranked the steering wheel. Then the pickup climbed the side of the hill as he aimed the vehicle at the White Tigers.

***

First Rank Lu Po, the hero of the San Francisco attack, lay in the snow. He took aim, firing at the crazy Americans in the pickup. An old man stood in back. The man had wild hair and he was laughing, swinging the heavy machinegun from side-to-side.

Beside Lu, Wang coughed blood and died.

“You shall suffer because of that,” Lu said. Before he could align his shot perfectly, three .50 caliber bullets smashed into him. They tore his body, instantly killing the hero of the San Francisco carrier attack.

***

“We did it,” Ramos said several minutes later.

The road below burned with Chinese trucks and commandeered vehicles. There were more vehicles and more Chinese soldiers coming, but this raid should hurt the other side, maybe enough to affect the present battle for Anchorage.

Then a Chinese attack helicopter rose into sight above the trees.

Directly behind him, Ramos heard the loud, chugging noise of the .50 caliber machinegun. Instead of diving into the snow and trying to escape, Mack Higgins tried to destroy the chopper.

A missile flashed from the helicopter’s wing.

“Ave Maria,” Ramos said, as he watched the missile streak at him. Then their technical exploded, and the two men died.

PRUDHOE BAY, ALASKA

Paul Kavanagh waited with Red Cloud in a gully on Cross Island. Before them was a wide expanse of pack ice. Behind were low mounds of frozen tundra, with deceptive dips and gullies everywhere. A cold wind blew, although Paul was immune to its bite just now. Particles of snow blew like sand across the desolate ice. It hurt visibility, but it was nothing like a ‘whiteout.’ Cross Island, along with several other small pieces of rock and tundra, guarded the approach to Dead Horse.

A Marine lieutenant had found them and the other American survivors against the hovertank pack-ice attack. The lieutenant had slipped out of Dead Horse with five hard-bitten Marines. He had rendezvoused with the last two helicopters. Instead of flying away, the lieutenant had landed on the ice, giving Kavanagh and the others badly needed supplies. Then he’d recharged their fighting suits. Afterward, the lieutenant had sent one of the choppers north, hunting for the enemy. It had never returned. Before its destruction, however, the helicopter crew had radioed the lieutenant information. They’d found a battle-group of snowtanks heading for Dead Horse. The enemy advance would take them to Cross Island. Likely, the Chinese commander wanted to reach tundra as soon as possible so he could get off the ice, even if for a little while.

“I know this a risk,” the lieutenant told Paul two hours ago. “But this is critical. The Chinese hold Dead Horse, but not in strength. The approaching snowtanks would triple Chinese combat power there. So I think we should hit them now and keep them from joining.”

Paul glanced at Red Cloud before he told the lieutenant, “Captain Bullard said he’d give me a link to California once this was over.”

“Bullard’s dead, but I’ll see what I can do. Just give me a few more days. I know this is your specialty. The Corps needs you.”

That’s how Paul had let himself be talked into this desperate plan. Crazy. They were just a handful of weary men, less than fifty against thirty snowtanks, accompanying infantry on sled-carriers and supply caterpillars. Neither side appeared to have air, other than the lieutenant’s remaining helicopter. They did have these Arctic fighting suits, and fully-charged again.

“I see something,” Red Cloud said. As he lay on his stomach, the Algonquin used a thermal tracker. “It’s the Chinese.”

Paul slid to the M220 Launcher. They had taken it off the sled and set it up here in the gully.

“Wait,” Red Cloud said. “They’re stopping and they’re still out of range.”

“What are they thinking?” Paul asked.

“Nothing good,” Red Cloud said.

More than ever, Paul wanted to crawl to the helicopter and fly out of the Arctic Circle. He wanted to see sunlight again. The Marine lieutenant thirsted for revenge, however. All he could think about was killing Chinese. With two helicopters, they could have been ferrying the survivors to somewhere on the coast. Instead, Paul found himself laying in the Arctic darkness in a gully, facing thirty snowtanks with infantry support. He hated these odds.

“Come on you bastards,” he said. “What are you waiting for?”

His fingers itched as he touched the TOW launcher’s firing mechanism. The Arctic night was a lonely world. Murphy must have been lonely those last hours lying in a cold snowcat. Paul still couldn’t understand why the Chinese had to gun-down oilmen working a rig. That had been murder.

“What are they waiting for?” Paul asked.

“We will find out soon enough,” Red Cloud said.

***

Lieutenant-General Bojing was in charge of the Chinese taskforce stopped on the ice. He had fled from the main base on the pack ice four hundred kilometers north of Alaska. That base had vanished in a mushroom cloud of radioactive destruction. The Americans had used another nuclear-tipped torpedo.

Bojing had fled in a tracked sled, much like a giant snowmobile. He had coolly considered his options. If he returned to Siberia, he would no doubt take the blame for the base’s destruction. He had been the officer-in-charge. He should have defended the base better. He considered General Nung, who had fought his way into Dead Horse. The general had little logistical ability, yet Nung had consistently advanced in rank. It was then that Bojing knew what he would do. He’d gather the survivors of the nuclear attack and join the thirty snowtanks heading for Dead Horse. He would re-supply General Nung. Perhaps the brash general could produce another miracle. Nung had done so before. Yet in order to produce a miracle, Nung needed more troops. These troops Bojing brought him.

“We are awaiting your orders, sir?” the officer in charge of the snowtanks radioed him.

In his command sled, Bojing fretted. He was a logistics officer, not a combat fighter. There were American soldiers on the island. The soldiers could spot for another submarine. On all accounts, Bojing knew he must get his troops onto dry land and off the pack ice. After seeing the mushroom cloud expand in the Arctic darkness, Bojing had come to dread the possibility of a third nuclear-tipped torpedo.

“Sir?” radioed the commander of the snowtanks. “It is inadvisable to just sit here and wait.”

Bojing knew that a bad order given strongly was better than dithering back and forth. “Dismount the infantry,” he said. “They will clear the way for your tanks.”

“Yes, sir!” the snowtank officer said.

Bojing nodded to himself. The snowtanks had to crawl over the ice. Their weight was too great for them to move at speed. If they did, the tanks would create violent wave-action under the ice. If the waves moved too violently, they would crack the ice and the tanks would fall into the freezing water. That limitation had been one of the debilitating factors of the trek from Siberia to Alaska. Once the snowtanks reached the tundra, however, they would easily be the most powerful vehicle in this nightmare land.

I hope I have made the correct decision, Bojing thought. I must give General Nung the means so he can achieve another battlefield miracle.

***

“You know what this is?” Paul asked.

“Tell me,” Red Cloud said.

“A Chinese wave assault.”

Paul and Red Cloud lay in their gully, both men using binoculars to scan the pack ice. On it approached an easy three hundred Chinese soldiers. They were spread out on the ice, with weapons ready. Behind them followed more Chinese soldiers.

“They mean to storm our island,” Red Cloud said.

Paul cradled a grenade launcher. It had advantages over a heavy machinegun. The biggest was that firing it wouldn’t give away their position. The enemy was still much too far out of range.

“We need some mortars,” Paul said.

“The lieutenant has the mines.”

They had been busy two hours ago, placing mines in the ice.

“Look there,” Red Cloud said, pointing to the left.

Paul turned his binoculars to where Red Cloud pointed. Snowtanks circled the island. His stomach curdled. The Chinese were trapping them.

Paul’s headphones in his helmet crackled. “We have to do something now!” a man shouted.

“We will,” Paul said. “We’ll do one thing at a time. The trick now is to kill Chinese.”

“Roger that,” the lieutenant said over the radio. “We let them bastards get close. Then I’ll trigger the mines.”

“What about the tanks circling us?” a man asked.

“One thing at a time like Kavanagh says,” the lieutenant answered. “So don’t crap your pants. Just get ready.”

“Yeah,” Paul whispered to himself. He gripped his grenade launcher and lay on the cold soil, watching the three hundred Chinese soldiers. Particles of snow like sand drifted across the ice, mingling with the mass of Chinese.

They waited another twelve minutes. By that time, Paul didn’t need binoculars. He could make out the red stars on the helmets of the approaching Chinese. The walking soldiers had drifted into squads. There were about forty Chinese moving directly toward them. The second wave followed in the distance.

“Get ready,” the lieutenant said over the radio. “…now,” he whispered.

Several seconds passed. Then loud explosions occurred on the ice. The fiery blasts of the mines sent Chinese soldiers flying, those of the second wave. The mines took a frightful toll. The explosions caused many of the first wave attack to turn around.

“Here we go,” Paul said. He aimed the grenade launcher and fired. The round was magnetically ejected, and it flew as a dark object. It landed between the nearest Chinese and exploded.

***

“We need the tanks!” an infantry commander shouted over the radio to Bojing. Bojing was still in the command vehicle, with the majority of the snowtanks in his vicinity.

During the infantry advance, the snowtanks had crawled forward, but staying outside of TOW2 missile range.

“Our soldiers are exposed out on the ice,” the tank commander radioed Bojing.

Bojing clutched the receiver. If the tanks moved too fast, they would create wave-action under the ice. But it was a short hop now to the island. If he were here, General Nung would order the tanks to charge. Some might fall into the freezing water, but most would make it to land.

“Attack,” Bojing said.

“Sir?” asked the tank commander.

“You are to charge the island. Help the infantry kill the Americans.”

***

“We must retreat inland,” Paul said as he ducked down into the gully.

Enemy bullets caused frozen tundra to spit into the air. The surviving Chinese infantry of their forty had spotted them. The enemy soldiers lay on the ice and fired with light machineguns.

“The snowtanks are coming,” the Marine lieutenant said over the radio.

Paul glanced at their TOW2 launcher. There was no way they could fire it now. Chinese infantry had gotten near enough to lay down suppressing fire. It would be suicide to try to do now what they’d done to the hovertanks days earlier.

“Leave the TOW,” Red Cloud said. “Take the LAWS rocket.”

The LAWS rocket was old. It fired a shape-charged round. It was a one-shot disposable tube. They had two LAWS.

Paul didn’t argue. He crawled along the bottom of the gully. Behind him, Red Cloud followed. It was too bad they hadn’t placed the TOW elsewhere along the gully. But they couldn’t think of everything in advance. At least the mines had worked.

Soon, Paul stood hunched over. He carried the grenade launcher and the LAWS, with a strap around each shoulder. Behind on the ice, snowtanks roared for the island.

Paul and Red Cloud ran up a slope and slid behind it. The snowtanks came from many directions.

“Look,” Red Cloud said.

Paul saw it. A TOW2 missile streaked across the ice. Several seconds later, it hit, and there was one less Chinese tank. More TOWs fired.

“Ha!” the Marine lieutenant shouted over the radio.

“What happened?” radioed Paul.

“The Chinese tanks are moving fast,” the lieutenant informed them. “I just saw the ice open up under one, and it disappeared.”

“It would be good if that happened to all of them,” Red Cloud said.

Paul cursed and slapped a hand on Red Cloud’s shoulder. Then he pointed. Three snowtanks approached the island. No infantry had made it here. Those had been some of the flanking tanks.

Explosive sounds occurred, and on the ice under the first tank appeared a zigzagging crack. The Chinese tanks kept coming.

“Open up,” Paul whispered. “Break apart.”

It didn’t happen. Instead, the three snowtanks made it to Cross Island, leaving the pack ice to clank over tundra. Each snowtank was made up of two separate sections or cabs, linked together by an articulated joint. On the first section was the main tank gun. The second section had heavy machineguns and an ATGM launcher.

“Our luck has run out,” Red Cloud said.

“We’ll have to make our own luck,” Paul said. “Come on, this way.”

They had the combat suits. It muffled their thermal and infrared signatures, and they were white like ghosts. Paul crawled. Red Cloud followed.

The snowtanks clanked up the slope and then turned toward the Chinese infantry. The two teams were likely going to link up. Tanks with infantry support would be almost impossible to kill on the island with the weapons they had.

“This is it,” Paul said. He got up, and he ran down-slope toward the three tanks. Red Cloud followed.

The clanking-rattle sound of the snowtanks was ominous. The hovers were the king of the ice. The snowtanks would rule on the tundra. If they reached Dead Horse….

Paul threw himself onto his belly, and he flipped up the sights on his LAWS. “This is for you, Murphy.” Paul squeezed the trigger.

A second later, the LAWS whooshed, and the shape-charged round sped at a tank. It hit the front section and exploded. There was a loud squeal, and the tank stopped.

Paul crawled like mad. He slid into a gully just as the tank’s machineguns opened up at him.

“Are you ready?” Paul asked.

“Roger,” Red Cloud said, who had stayed behind.

Paul got up and ran in a crouch.

“There’s two on your tail,” Red Cloud radioed.

Paul sprinted with everything he had. It felt like his football days. A tank appeared at the top of the slope behind him. Paul dove and rolled behind an outcropping of soil. At the same moment, a kneeling Red Cloud fired his LAWS, and it scored a hit, stopping the enemy tank.

Paul thrust himself up, and he kept moving inland toward the center of the island. His suit cooled his sweat. That helped. He sucked on a water tube. That helped more. His side began to ache, but Paul kept running over the tundra, with Red Cloud beside him. The last of the three tanks must have joined the infantry.

“I wonder…how our side is doing,” Paul panted.

Red Cloud didn’t answer.

After that, Paul concentrated. Fourteen minutes later, they spotted the helicopter. The blades were slowly turning and the big bay door was still open. A man in a combat suit was climbing in.

Paul was exhausted. The pain in his side was agony. But he’d been through this before. He ignored the pain and concentrated on pushing himself. The helicopter was life. If he could reach it, he could go home again. If he failed, he died or became a prisoner of the Chinese. Beside him, Red Cloud faltered.

“No,” Paul whispered. He grabbed the Algonquin and kept him going.

Soon, they crawled into the helicopter. Helping hands yanked them in. The blades were turning faster now, and now the Marine chopper lurched as it lifted off the cold ground.

Paul’s eyes glazed over, and he waited, wondering if the Chinese would shoot them out of the air. It didn’t happen. They raced out the back of the island, a handful of men: seven to be exact. The lieutenant never made it, leaving the pilot in charge.

“Where next?” asked Paul.

“Far away from here,” the pilot said as they climbed into the night sky, heading west so they wouldn’t run up against the Chinese air defense in Dead Horse.

***

Lieutenant-General Bojing technically won the small action at Cross Island. But he had taken appalling losses: fourteen snowtank and half his infantry either dead or wounded. When his men counted the number of enemy dead, it frightened Bojing. These Americans were tigers.

“What now, sir?” the tank commander asked.

“Now we dash to Dead Horse and add our numbers to General Nung.”

It was bold talk, but Bojing knew now that Nung wouldn’t achieve greatness with the addition of these paltry forces. They would need more soldiers and more tanks, many more, if they hoped to conquer the rest of northern Alaska.

PRCN SUNG

As night fell over the fleet, Admiral Ling sat in his ready room, staring at a screen showing an aerial three-dimensional map of Anchorage. His ground commanders had driven a deep wedge into the city, but they were fast running out of fuel.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” said Ling, as he continued to stare at the computer screen.

Commodore Yen slipped in. He took a chair before Ling and waited in silence.

“The American pickup-attack against our land convoy was a brilliant move,” Ling said quietly.

“We have more soldiers,” said Yen.

Ling shook his head. “We’re almost out of fuel. Now our ammo situation is deteriorating. If we could move all that we have on the beachheads to the front, it would be a different story. But these Americans….”

“One final push led by the T-66s can still reach the Anchorage refineries,” said Yen. “Then all will be well.”

“Tomorrow, we shall see,” said Ling.

“You must beg the Chairman for more supplies. Our naval infantry can dig in as they wait for greater reinforcements.”

“Will the Chairman send us more with winter nearing?” asked Ling. “Winter-fighting in Alaska will bring us more blizzards of the type we just endured. I fear that we began the campaign in the wrong season.”

Commodore Yen said nothing to that.

After a time, Admiral Ling continued to adjust the computer screen.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

It was mid-morning of the second day of the Battle for Anchorage. Stan crouched beside Major Philips’s corpse. Police Sergeant Jackson had dragged the body out of a destroyed Stryker. The vehicle hadn’t moved fast enough this last time.

During these two days, Philips, Jackson and Stan had lured, ambushed and destroyed three T-66 tri-turreted tanks.

Stan glanced at the smashed Stryker as he inhaled the stink of machine oil and hot metal. A large building loomed over them. Shattered glass, piles of black snow and rubble littered the sidewalks and paving. Looking up the street, Stan inspected the wrecked T-66. Chinese corpses lay around it, the tanker crew trying to escape their crippled monster.

The sounds of war reverberated from hundreds of buildings. Chinese artillery boomed outside the city, sending shells screaming into the concrete jungle. There was constant rifle fire, vehicle cannons and hammering machineguns. Anchorage looked like old war footage with guttered grocery stores, smashed banks and demolished retail outlets.

Standing, Stan adjusted his durasteel armor. He felt hollow and his eyes hurt. There was a bloody bandage around his head for his torn left ear. It made wearing his helmet uncomfortable. Only his Abrams remained. The other two M1A2s had paid the ultimate price, just like Philips. Jose was at the back of the tank, inspecting the engine. Hank checked treads.

“One Abrams can’t do much against the rest of the T-66s,” Stan said. Philips’s Stryker had been the last of their ‘bait’ team. Jackson was the last police officer of their squad still able to walk.

“It’s not over until it’s over,” Jackson muttered.

Stan glanced at him. The officer had a stony face, his eyes like flint. “Last man standing, huh?”

“I swore an oath a long time ago to protect the people of the city,” Jackson said. “I’m going to do that until I die.”

“That won’t take us long,” Stan said. “The Chinese have too much heavy ordnance for us.” They had destroyed three T-66s and damaged others, almost taking out two more. Those others had retreated to the Chinese side for repairs.

“You still have your tank,” Jackson said, “and I have my assault rifle.”

Stan frowned. The man had been running from T-66s since yesterday, luring more than half-a-dozen into ambush. It was a thankless task and had killed or crippled all the other volunteers. The thing that galled Stan was that it could have worked as a tactic. The Chinese simply had too many of those monsters compared to what America possessed here.

Stan moved his lower jaw, trying to make it so his torn ear didn’t hurt so much. That proved impossible. Stan sighed. He was bone tired, exhausted.

“I want to see them,” he said. “Maybe we can figure out something better.”

Jackson stared up the street. He seemed to be listening to the sounds of combat. The police officer knew the city, all the little side streets and secret ways. It was his knowledge that had let them kill as many T-66s as they had.

“Follow me,” Jackson said.

They crunched over glass and rubble, trotting at times, gripping their weapons and hunching.

“This way,” Jackson said.

The police officer led Stan into a guttered building. They climbed creaking stairs and warily approached a shot-up window. Glass shards littered a desk near the window. Stan swept the glass onto the floor and peered outside.

There was a giant parking lot in the distance, the shell of a parking garage and many other empty lots. Long ago, car dealerships had displayed hundreds of new vehicles there. Now the lead elements of the next Chinese assault moved across the open area. Operationally, the enemy attack had wedged into the city like a triangle. The point—the T-66s—had made it three-quarters of the way through. They were only a little over a mile away from the storage depots.

“Look at that,” Stan said. “I count five heavies. We have nothing left to stop those.”

“We have your tank.”

“It isn’t enough,” said Stan. “It would be suicide to continue what we’ve been doing.”

“We can’t let the Chinese take Anchorage.”

Stan eyes ached as he watched those giant tanks. Three cannons per vehicle, each of those a 175mm gun. He thought of Major Benson and the twenty M1A3s he had brought from California. That had been a great moment, when Benson’s tanks had scored those hits.

“What’s happening?” Jackson asked.

“What?”

“That T-66 over there,” Jackson said, pointing with his assault rifle.

The lead tri-turreted tank shuddered and began to slow down. That caused the T-66 behind it to veer out of the way so it could go past.

“Why is the tank slowing down in the middle of an open area?” Jackson asked. “Are they going to set up a strongpoint there?”

The T-66 slowed and then stopped. With a loud rattling sound, its engine quit.

The other T-66s passed the stalled monster. Soon, Chinese naval infantry passed the vehicle. As they did, hatches opened and Chinese tankers popped outside.

In wonder, Stan turned to Sergeant Jackson. “You know what that is?”

Jackson shook his head.

“That tank just ran out of gas,” Stan said.

“Are you sure?”

“I know that sound. I’ve heard a similar noise too many times from my own gas-hungry tank. That T-66 just plum ran out of gas.”

“Seems strange, doesn’t it?”

Stan smashed the butt of his assault rifle against the desk. “It’s more than strange. You don’t send a half-empty tank into battle, not if you can help it. You especially don’t do that when the tank is so important to your assault. You drain less important vehicles of their fuel so the critical vehicle has enough. I think the enemy is low on fuel.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Jackson said. “China is the oil king of the world.”

Stan was blinking at the other T-66s. A cold feeling worked through his tired body. Maybe it did make sense. “They have oil,” he said. “But do they have enough transports?”

Jackson glanced at him.

“It’s a long way from China to here,” Stan said. “Then they have to move everything through the Kenai Peninsula. That means the Number One Highway, a single ribbon of road, one clogged by the storm. I think the enemy is low on fuel. By that stalled T-66, I think critically low.”

“So?” Jackson asked.

Stan swiveled around as he glanced at the stairs. His mouth opened and he blinked his red eyes. “If they’re low on fuel….” He frowned as he stared out of the window again. “Shit,” he whispered.

“What is it, Professor?”

Stan grabbed Jackson by the arm. “The Chinese are headed for the fuel depots. They need our fuel. We have to blow them?”

“Our side needs the fuel,” Jackson said.

“Come on!” Stan shouted, as he headed for the stairs. “Run!”

***

“General Sims, sir,” Stan said over the radio. “You have to listen to me.”

Captain Higgins was inside his Abrams, heading for the giant fuel depots. The Chinese were less than a mile from the storage facility. Jackson rode inside the tank with the rest of the crew. Stan had worked the radio, climbing through the chain of command until finally he spoke with C-in-C of Alaska, General Sims.

“I just saw a T-66 run out of gas, sir,” Stan said, as he clicked the receiver.

“Yes?” Sims asked. “That happens all the time to us, Captain.”

“You don’t understand, sir. I think the Chinese are low on fuel.”

“There’s always the possibility,” Sims said, “but I find that unlikely.”

“Yet what if it’s true, sir?”

“Is there a reason for this call?” Sims asked.

“The Chinese need our fuel depots. That’s why they’re driving for it.”

“It’s an important military target, certainly.”

“Sir, this is just like the Western Desert of World War Two. Before the Germans arrived, British General O’Conner used Italian fuel dumps to keep his drive alive as he drove for the main Italian-run ports.”

“What are you babbling about, Captain?”

“We have to destroy our fuel depots,” Stan said. “We have to blow them.”

“We need those storage units,” Sims said.

“Sir, we don’t have much time.”

“There aren’t any engineers near there. Besides, we’re not going to lose them. I thought this was a battle request, Captain. You and your team have done a fine job of destroying T-66s. Keeping doing that and we’ll win. But leave the strategy to me.”

Stan stared at his receiver. Should he keep arguing? Could he make General Sims understand? His grip tightened and he felt lightheaded.

“Yes, sir,” Stan said. “I’m sorry if I sounded presumptuous.”

“You’re tired, Captain. I understand. Hold out and keep fighting. We’re not finished yet.”

Yes, we are, especially if the Chinese capture those storage tanks intact. Instead of saying that, Stan signed off.

“So much for that,” Jackson said.

“Wrong,” Stan said. “Hank, are you looking at your city map?”

“Yes, sir,” Hank said.

“Take us to the fuel depots,” Stan said.

Jackson stared up at him.

“Are you ready for this?” Stan asked the police officer.

“You’re taking a lot on yourself, Professor,” Jackson said.

“Sometimes a battle is decided with a man and his rifle…if he happens to be at exactly the right spot,” Stan said. “This time, it’s a crew and its tank at the critical juncture.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Jackson asked.

“I’m not wrong,” Stan said. “Hank?”

“Hang on,” Hank said.

***

“General Sims must have radioed ahead,” Hank said. “I’m seeing a military detail outside the gate. It looks like they mean to stop us.”

They’d driven through the city and to the entrance of the huge storage depot. Beyond the gate were giant white oil tanks that held millions of gallons of gas, diesel and kerosene.

Stan peered through his scope. There was a Bradley, three Humvees and several squads of soldiers positioned before the gate behind piled sandbags. A chain-link fence circled the giant storage facility.

“What do we do now?” Jose asked.

“Sergeant Jackson,” Stan said. “Do you mind going outside and talking to them?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Your best lines of B.S.,” Stan said. “Con them into lowering their guns.”

“And if they don’t?” Jackson asked.

“Then surrender immediately.”

“What about you?” Jackson asked.

“I’ll wait until you’re well outside the tank,” Stan said.

Jackson stared at him, and finally, he nodded. “Good luck, Professor. I hope you’re right about this.”

They shook hands. Then Stan opened his hatch and Jackson climbed out.

“Give him a minute,” Stan said.

From outside, an officer shouted at Jackson, “Why is your tank here?”

“Are you two ready?” Stan asked.

Jose turned and looked up. “Just give me the word, Stan.”

“If you think this is right thing, Professor,” Hank said, “then I’m convinced.”

“They might hang us if I’m wrong,” Stan said.

“We’re brothers,” Jose said. “And we trust you that you know what you’re doing.”

Stan reached up for the hatch as something caught in his throat. Then he steeled his nerves. He heard Jackson arguing with the officer-in-charge.

“Now!” Stan said, and he shut the hatch with a clang.

Hank revved the M1A2, and they lurched.

Stan peered through his scope. Soldiers ran to get out of the way. Then the Bradley rushed into view. With a mighty clang, Hank rammed the Bradley, shoving it out of the way. A moment later, the Abrams rammed through the chain-link fence.

“Load a HE round,” Stan said. “Then aim for the farthest storage unit.”

Jose went to work as the auto-loader shoved a round into the firing chamber.

Bullets began striking and bouncing off their tank. Then heavy .50 caliber rounds hit the Abrams. Those must be coming from the Humvees. They had zero effect as well.

“Fire,” Stan said.

The 120mm smoothbore shot a high explosive round into a giant storage unit. It hit, and a titanic explosion erupted, a fierce roar of sound. Seconds later, the shockwave hit, rocking the tank.

As a fireball climbed into existence, Stan shouted, “Keep firing! We’re going to blow them all!”

WASHINGTON D.C.

Deep underground in White House Bunker Number Five, General Alan stood up.

“Mr. President, I have good news. The Chinese assault in Anchorage has halted for the moment. The T-66s have run out of gas. I think the Chinese supply lines have been stretched to the breaking point. Before they recover, I believe that our lead elements in the Yukon will already be in the city.”

President Clark smiled. “That is excellent news.”

“May I ask a question, sir?” Anna Chen asked.

“Please,” the President said.

“I’ve heard reports about a National Guard Captain and his tank,” Anna said.

“Where did you hear about this?” General Alan said.

“What captain?” the President asked.

General Alan seemed embarrassed. “A Captain Stan Higgins attacked our storage depot in Anchorage, sir. He injured a dozen Army soldiers doing it.”

“He blew up the fuel tanks,” Anna said.

“Where did you learn this?” General Alan asked, giving her a keen stare.

“Why did the captain do this?” President Clark asked.

“Uh,” General Alan said, looking at the President. “According to his testimony, he believed the Chinese were low on fuel, sir.”

“He tried to talk General Sims into doing it,” Anna said. “Sims refused and now the captain and his crew are under arrest.”

“Is this true?” Clark asked General Alan.

“Yes, sir.”

Clark frowned. “You say the Chinese are low on fuel. What would have happened if they had captured our storage facilities intact?”

“It’s hard to say, sir,” General Alan replied.

The President eyed the general. Then he glanced at Anna. Finally, Clark sat back, drumming his fingers on the conference table. “I pardon the captain, if he needs it. And I pardon his tank crew. Then I want him in Washington.”

“Sir?” asked General Alan.

“The man deserves the Congressional Medal of Honor for what he did,” the President said.

“But sir—” General Alan said.

“That is an order,” the President said.

“Yes, sir.”

“In fact, make the call right now. We can wait until you’re finished.”

“Yes, sir,” General Alan said, motioning to one of his aides. Several seconds later, the aide hurried near with a telephone.

BEIJING, P.R.C.

Jian Shihong, Minister without Portfolio, glanced at the other Ruling Committee members waiting on the Chairman. Admiral Qingshan of the Navy looked weary, while Police Minister Xiaodan seemed positively frightened. Xiaodan had lost weight, giving his face a skeletal look. The marshal, the Army Minister, sat as stiffly as ever, although a tic had begun under his right eye. Only Deng Fong seemed the same, the same miserable intriguer with his secretive cunning. Jian hated Deng and dearly wanted to see the man die a cruel death.

The door opened and the Chairman’s wheelchair moved across the carpeted floor. He stopped at the head of the table. A medical tube from the box in the back of the chair to the Chairman’s side made an odd gurgling noise. A blue clot made its way out of the Chairman and to the box.

Jian suppressed a shudder of loathing. The old man should be dead by now. Only advanced medicines kept him alive.

“It is time for decisions,” the Chairman whispered. His chair didn’t amplify his words, nor did he speak with vigor. He seemed tired, possibly dispirited.

As Jian tried to decide if he should say something, Admiral Qingshan took a deep breath. “May I speak, sir?” he asked.

“By all means,” the Chairman said.

“The naval infantry has reached Anchorage. They have already begun to breach the city. We hold the Kenai Peninsula. All we need to complete the task is fuel, munitions and another three fresh brigades.”

“All?” asked the Chairman.

“I do not understand, sir,” said Qingshan.

“How will you ship this new transfusion to your trapped naval infantry?”

“By using Navy transports, sir,” said Qingshan.

“These transports are needed for grain,” the Chairman said. “Isn’t that right, Xiaodan?”

“The people’s anger is growing worse,” Xiaodan said in a soft voice. “The people of the inner provinces are very hungry.”

“But the war, sir—” said Qingshan.

“Has ground to a halt,” the Chairman said. “General Nung reached Dead Horse, and the Army is to be congratulated for that.” The old man glanced at the marshal.

The Army Minister seemed uncomfortable with the praise.

He hates Nung just like all the others in High Command, Jian thought. The marshal would have just as soon seen General Nung fail.

“Nung has reached Dead Horse,” the Chairman said, “but our ability to re-supply him is fast dwindling. Meanwhile, the Army T-66s have stalled. They are out of fuel.”

“With more fuel—” Qingshan began.

“No!” the Chairman said. “I will not send more ships into the northern waters as winter approaches. The Americans have moved heavy ground formations into position, entering the Yukon as they travel for Alaska. They will reach Anchorage before your reinforcements do. If you had taken the city and opened the port, yes. Then I would pour Army troops into the city. But as the Arctic winter approaches I will not throw good troops after bad ones.”

Admiral Qingshan stiffened.

“The war—” Jian said.

“Quiet!” the Chairman said. “You will not use your boasts here today. Yes, you lit a fire under Nung, and he achieved a Mongol’s objective, a raiding victory.”

“He holds Dead Horse, sir,” Jian said.

“We cannot hold onto the North Slope,” the Chairman said. “But we can blow the oil wells there so America’s fuel burns and their economy withers away. We have denied them the Arctic Ocean oil wells and the Prudhoe Bay fields. That might be enough to induce them to trade for our oil.”

“I do not think the Americans will sell us grain, sir,” Deng said.

“No,” the Chairman said, after a moments reflection. “Neither do I. We attempted to snatch Alaska from them in a swift, surprise attack. Our attack came within centimeters of success but in the end, it failed. Now we must glean from it what we can.”

The Chairman studied his ministers. “Our chief advantage is that the Americans dared to use nuclear weapons. The outcry against them is growing. We might be able to use that to break the Grain Union. We have hurt America and shown the world how weak they are. To conquer American territory, however, we need a stronger merchant marine and a greater number of Navy transports. Therefore, I am ordering an immediate increase in ship construction.”

“Sir?” asked Deng.

“The war has shown us that China needs a larger Navy,” the Chairman said. “Therefore, we will buy that with our riches.”

“What about our naval infantry in Alaska?” Admiral Qingshan asked.

“We will retrieve the units that we can reach,” the Chairman said. “Let the others sit near Anchorage, spending the winter there. If they are still alive come next year, we might have a use for them again. But as of this moment, the war to take Alaska is over. We will not resume that war or any war with America until our Navy dwarfs theirs.”

The old man in the wheelchair fell silent, watching his ministers.

Jian’s throat was dry. He needed war to advance his political power, of that he was certain. But this was not the moment to push for more war. This was the moment to back the Chairman with enthusiasm. “That is a marvelous idea, sir. I totally agree.”

Deng Fong stared at him.

“Yes,” Xiaodan said a moment later. “I agree, sir. You are correct.”

The marshal of the Army nodded.

“Admiral Qingshan?” the Chairman asked.

“We are so near victory,” Qingshan said. “It would be a pity to halt the attack now.”

The Chairman scowled. “Our troops are stalled as the Americans pour reinforcements through the Yukon. We used your naval brigades, but they were unable to move quickly enough to achieve the goal. Therefore, now is the time to rearm nationally, using our experiences to build a bigger and better military.”

“I have grave doubts about leaving our troops exposed near Anchorage, sir,” said Qingshan.

“Then you had better reconsider quickly,” the Chairman said.

After a moment, Qingshan nodded. “I think Admiral Ling can recover most of the troops immediately, sir. The critical idea, as you say, is to rearm until we have an invincible Navy. Destroying the American supercarriers and crippling their economy—that was a worthy objective to have achieved with our military effort.”

The Chairman brooded before he said, “The war for Alaska is over. Now we shall make sure that Chinese arms will never again be caught short of supplies. That is an important lesson learned by our little naval exercise these past few weeks. It is one we shall never forget.”

He is trying to minimize the loss, Jian thought to himself. He is deceiving himself.

The Chairman shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair as pain creased his features. “Now, on to other matters….”

PIKE WEATHER STATION, ALASKA

Paul Kavanagh was on the phone in a small hut atop a mountain. The long-distance line to California was finally coming through. Red Cloud was outside, waiting near the Marine helicopter.

Someone on the other end of the line picked up the phone. “Hello?” a woman asked.

“Cheri?” Paul said, his heart racing and his face flushed.

“Paul?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s me.”

“Paul, you’re alive. I-I thought….”

“I’m coming home, baby.” By all that was holy, he loved her voice. It was beautiful. It was life.

“What do you mean ‘coming home’?”

“I mean that I’m sorry for all the ways I treated you badly. It means I want to start over. I love you, baby. I want to be with you more than anything in this world. What do you say, Cheri? Do you think there’s a chance?”

A sob came over the crackling line.

“Cheri?” Paul said, worried he’d lost the connection as he had before outside Platform P-53.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Cheri whispered. “When I thought you were dead…. Please, Paul, hurry home. I love you so much. I know that now.”

Paul grinned so hard it hurt his cheeks. “I love you too, baby. I’ll be home in a few weeks.”

“Oh, Paul, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’m so terribly glad you’re alive. This is wonderful.”

“Yeah, I’m done fighting. It’s out of my system. All I want is to love you and raise my boy right. I can hardly wait to hold you in my arms again.”

This was great! This was why he was alive. He’d paid his vow to Murphy. Now it was time to live again.

The End

To the Reader: I hope you’ve enjoyed Invasion: Alaska. If you would like to read more about the Great War between China and the United States, I encourage you to write a review. Let me know how you feel and let others know what to expect.

Novels by Vaughn Heppner

The Ark Chronicles:

People of the Ark

People of the Flood

People of Babel

People of the Tower

Lost Civilizations:

Giants

Leviathan

The Tree of Life

Gog

Behemoth

The Lod Saga

The Doom Star Series:

Star Soldier

Bio-Weapon

Battle Pod

Cyborg Assault

Planet Wrecker

Other Novels:

The Great Pagan Army

The Sword of Carthage

The Knight of Pellinore

Invasion: Alaska

Death Knight

The Darkling

The Dragon Horn

Strontium-90

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