Invasion: Alaska

-10- Amphibious Landing

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 kung-fu 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 way out here, too.

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 heard they’d only gotten a few parked planes. Apparently, the Americans had been wise enough to ferry the aircraft farther inland. According to rumors, 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, 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 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 machine gun bolted to the top. A man stood behind the gun.

The American shouted to those in the SUV. The vehicle 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.

“What was that?” asked Wang.

“Militiamen are firing at us,” said a Commando. The words came over Lu’s helmet headphones.

“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, 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. 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. An 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.”

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.

Because of special construction ten years ago, 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 machine guns 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 in.”

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 beyond. 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 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 the town. 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 had several FGM-148 Javelins. 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, a 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 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, one of them the ammo bearer of their two-man Javelin team. 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 answer wasn’t long in coming. Twenty-three amphibious personnel carriers, Snapping Turtles, churned through the gray waves. They headed for Homer’s beach, with its 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 picked up the Javelin launcher, almost fifty pounds in weight. With a flick of his fingers, he turned on the 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 as the missile made a soft launch. Seconds later, the Javelin roared into life. It was a fire-and-forget missile, 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 readied another missile and targeted a second amphibious carrier, launching again. The Javelin hit and destroyed a second invasion craft. Sergeant Byers readied 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 and his launcher. 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.

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 Qiang of the Ruling Committee on the need for more fuel. Ling wanted to build-up larger reserves. Naval Minister Qiang 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.

“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 well-being, 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 burning 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?

A National Guard captain named Jones stared at Stan Higgins. In regular life, Captain Jones ran a manure factory. He was balding, had red-veined eyes and was missing the last three fingers of his left hand, which he’d lost 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 in the middle, toward the top. The peninsula guarded Anchorage, with Cook Inlet to the west, 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, much of it covered in glaciers. 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 General 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 machine gun, 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 general’s aid, 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.”

Jones showed Stan the State Highway One, also known as 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. 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 governments’s eyes. 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.