Invasion: Alaska

-11- Invasion

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 Highway One.

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 Highway One. 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 withdrawal, 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 with negligible Chinese losses.

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 strange watching the helicopters because they flew over a Christmas wonderland of pines and snow, with awesome background mountains covered in white. 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 cut him down.

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, the bill backward on his head. It was a Seattle Seahawks 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.

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-35s 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, and beyond the miles-wide body of water were more pines, decorated with snow.

A hidden ground-based laser must have fired. An F-35 tumbled earthward, 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-35 exploded.

“Such destruction,” Anna said.

Johnson sat down near her, with his hands clasped between his knees. He was intent on the screen. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Anna didn’t acknowledge him or his words. His earlier racial epithets 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 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, “is 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 oil rig 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 in any case, 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 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 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.”

The air wings from the seven Chinese carriers would have established air superiority over Alaska but for two key elements: defensive lasers and massed 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 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-35s 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-35s 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-35 pilots were good, and they had the advantage of height. They traded it for speed. As more F-35s 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 used advanced jamming equipment. The F-35 radar ranges were cut in half by the jamming. As yet, they were unable to track any targets.

The F-35s 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-35 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-35s 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-35 exploded.

“Keep attacking!” the Air Chief radioed. “Engage them. Keep them from the transports.”

The last two pilots kept 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. Though the Americans didn’t know it, 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, 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 needed to stem the Chinese advance, and for that he required more and better-trained soldiers and always tons more munitions.

Captain Roger Clemens stood at the command module of his Virginia-class nuclear-powered fast attack submarine. It was also known as a 774 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 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 during World War Two. 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 the advantage 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 Minnesota 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 Minnesota 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 deck plates, the other depth charge exploded, and it ruptured the forward hull of the Virginia-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 Minnesota, 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.

Paul Kavanagh slid across the pack ice on his skis. It was so bitterly cold that his bones ached. The howling wind blew against him, and it threw 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 Paul sleep in. Red Cloud climbed out of the bag, used a tiny sterno stove and heated coffee.

The hot coffee 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—but 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.

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 it 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.

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 Highway One 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 formed willy-nilly 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 Highway One did. The Chinese had the element of surprise 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. His militiamen had been attached to their company as scouts.

“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 more effective at long range 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 manning 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 historic 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 his 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 don’t run this time, but instead make 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 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 terms of Chinese advanced armament.

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 machine gun 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 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 the 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 a130mm 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.