Invasion: Alaska

-9- Contact

Captain Han of the Chinese Space Service settled a virtual reality (VR) helmet over his head. He was in a remote controlling “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.

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 further frustrate Chinese radar.

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: shoot 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, and 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, when 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. 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.

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.

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.

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.

“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 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 must be trying to erase my memory.”

“Has anyone hit you?” Stan asked.

Mack touched his side. “A few times.” 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?”

“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. And 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 those 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 onlytanks 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 enemy’s 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.

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 capital 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, 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 rumpled 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-altitude 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 installations 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-altitude 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 bombing 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 land 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—Chinese guarantees of 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 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, “is that 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 in order to make an informed decision. I want reconnaissance flights over the Arctic Ocean.”

“Yes, sir,” General Alan said. “We have several squadrons of winterized aircraft there, but almost no specialized UAVs for the 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.

Paul awoke as the snowcat clanked up a pressure ridge. They were 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, 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 die.

Ice broke under the cat’s left tread and they sank into a soft area. The machine lurched leftward. It threw Murphy across the back, causing his head to hit one of the windows. It would have thrown Paul, too, 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 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 a warning to Red Cloud, but he didn’t dare, fearing to break the Indian’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 though it was relatively warm in the snowcat, 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. 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 Paul could remember, there was fear on Murphy’s face. “I don’t want to die,” the ex-Ranger 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 of 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 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 Paul 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 to.”

“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 to. 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 a 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, and death, honor and duty. He desperately wanted to see Cheri and Mikey again. The feeling had become an ache in his heart. 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.”

“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 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, 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. Until today, 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 oil rig.

“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.