Invasion: Alaska

-13- War in the Ice

Paul Kavanagh was tired, cold and sore. The sound of his skis was a constant noise, interspaced with a moaning wind that bit into his bones. Despite everything, he stared up at the polar darkness in awe. An eerie display of colors lit the heavens. It was the Northern Lights, otherwise known by the more scientific name Aurora Borealis. Red and green patterns of light seemingly formed motionless waves of beauty before the stars.

Red Cloud glanced back at him, his features hidden under a ski mask. Maybe he noticed Paul’s fixation, for the Algonquin looked up. Resting on his ski poles, Red Cloud waited for Paul to catch up with him. Then the Algonquin began to cross-country ski beside Paul.

“Sunspots make the lights,” Red Cloud said.

“How?” asked Paul, who hadn’t spoken for days.

Red Cloud glanced at him again. The Algonquin had spoken to him several times a ski-period, even though Paul had never acknowledged him or his words. It was almost as if Red Cloud had been worried about his state of mind. Now Paul wondered if the Indian had felt lonely, if this Arctic desert adversely affected the Algonquin as it did him.

Did he fear I would give up and he’d be trapped alone in this icy wasteland?

“Protons and electrons are shot from the Sun in massive bursts during a solar storm,” Red Cloud said. “The protons and electrons strike the Earth’s atmosphere, and the planet’s magnetic field drives them to the poles. There they act like the charged particles in a fluorescent tube.”

“What kind of Indian are you?” asked Paul. He’d been expecting some ancient Algonquin myth, the way TV Indians always answered nature-related questions.

Red Cloud pointed at the heavenly display. “Green is the most common color. It is caused by atomic oxygen. Red is caused by molecular oxygen and nitrogen.”

“Were you a scientist?” asked Paul.

“…no. I love science fiction. Asimov taught me it was fine to desire to know the reason behind a thing, but Jack Vance has always been my favorite SF author.”

“Never heard of either one of them,” Paul said.

They fell silent then as they continued the endless trek across the pack ice. It was a monotonous journey and tedious to the mind. There was a flat expense of white in every direction as far as the eye could see.

“That’s interesting,” Paul said, who continued to stare at the Northern Lights as he thought about the Algonquin’s words.

Red Cloud grunted. He still pulled the toboggan, the supplies having dwindled since leaving Murphy in the stalled snowcat.

“Why does that little red light move like that?” asked Paul.

“Northern Lights do not visibly move.”

“That one sure does.”

Red Cloud looked up again. He stopped. Paul stopped beside him. They both watched the blinking, moving red light.

Suddenly, the Algonquin hissed, “Get down and remain still.” He threw himself flat on the ice.

Paul did likewise as he slipped the assault rifle from his shoulder. He watched the blinking dot move along the Aurora Borealis.

“Look,” Paul said. “There’s another light farther behind the first.”

The two men glanced at each other. Then both craned their necks, studying the phenomenon. The second blinking light came toward them, following the light ahead of them.

“I see a third one even farther behind,” Red Cloud said.

“Yeah,” Paul said.

“They must be airplanes.”

“Or helicopters.”

“Listen,” Red Cloud said.

Paul listened, and he heard it—a faraway drone.

“These aircraft do not fly at the same height as the intercontinental planes,” whispered Red Cloud. “Maybe they fly low to escape high-flight detection.”

“They’re passing us—who knows how many miles to our left.” Paul studied the three locations. “They’re headed south, which means they’re coming in from the north. Do you think this has anything to do with the destruction of Platform P-53?”

“Yes,” Red Cloud said.

“Yeah,” Paul said, nodding. “Why blow an oil rig? There has to be a good reason, a purpose.” He recalled Murphy watching him from the cat’s window. The mind-image brought a painful knot to his sternum. “Where are those aircraft going, do you think?”

“We will never know.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” Paul said with heat.

“Why are you angry?”

“You’re the one who wants to know how things work. You read science fiction. You’re supposed to be curious, right?”

“We must save our thoughts for survival,” Red Cloud said. “The Aurora Borealis and those points of light, they are good because they’ve brought you out of the gloom that filled your mind. Now we must conserve our strength—”

“Why did you tell me to hit the ice just now?” asked Paul.

“The unknown instills fear. I was afraid.”

“Wrong answer, Chief.”

Red Cloud grew still. “I do not care for you calling me that.”

Paul’s nostrils flared. Then he nodded as he thought about it. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. You and me are in this together. With Chinese Commandos blowing up our jobs we don’t need to bring up bad blood between ourselves.” Paul watched the blinking lights. “Do you think those are more Chinese?”

“The Chinese blew up the rig and tried to kill us. Now something odd occurs on the ice again, meaning the likeliest explanation is the Chinese are doing something strange.”

“Are there anymore oil rigs or science posts around here?” Paul asked.

“Not along this route, no.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. He felt alive again. With the feeling came a desire to strike back, not to just take it all the time. The desire hardened, and he said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to follow those blinking lights.”

“You are using your emotions, not your mind. To do as you suggest will decrease our chances of survival.”

Paul jumped to his feet, using the assault rifle to point at the blinking lights. “My gut says those are choppers. First, what are choppers doing out here? Second, how far can choppers fly? They don’t fly as far on one tank of gas as a cargo plane.” Paul shook his head. “We’re never going to make it to Dead Horse. But if there’s a camp on the ice somewhere close by—”

“If there is a camp,” Red Cloud said, “it could be thirty, fifty, or even seventy miles away from here.”

“Seventy miles is still closer than over two hundred miles away,” Paul said. He hesitated. “This is it, Red Cloud.” It was the first time he’d used the Algonquin’s last name. “Are we splitting up, or do we stick together and find out what’s going on?”

Red Cloud watched the blinking lights. “You are an American. I am an outcast without a country, maybe even the last of the free Algonquins. Let us die on the warpath as warriors, the two of us, former enemies facing impossible odds.” A hard smile stretched the woolen fabric of his ski mask. “This one time, you shall know what it feels like being an Indian.”

“Sure,” Paul said. “Let’s go.”

Jian Hong felt fear as he rode an elevator deep underground beneath Mao Square. The Chairman had summoned him to his personal bunker. Few entered it and fewer still left alive. According to Police Minister Xiao, who compiled such statistics, not even Deng Fong had ever been summoned down here.

Beside Jian in the elevator were two silent guards in black uniforms. They wore red armbands with the Chairman’s personal symbol in the center, the head of a lion with an imposing yellow mane. The guards towered over Jian. The occasional glances in his direction weren’t overtly hostile, but these two seemed contemptuous of him.

The two guards made Jian feel small and weak. His strength would prove futile against these two. If he were to oust the Chairman from power, he needed to figure out a way past the Lion Guard, as the security teams were named.

The elevator stopped, the door opened and one of the guards pushed Jian into a utilitarian steel corridor. He stumbled ahead of the two specimens of Chinese perfection.

The corridor was long, with iron-grilled lights glaring down on them. Knowing they were underground, under tons of earth, magnified Jian’s fear. He felt claustrophobic and soon he was short of breath.

“We’re almost there,” the nearer guard said.

Jian wanted to tell the man he wasn’t tired, but claustrophobic.

“Halt!” said a guard.

Jian stopped before a steel-reinforced door. It slid up, revealing a large room.

“In,” said the guard, shoving Jian into the room.

Behind Jian, before he could protest, the steel door slammed shut. It made Jian jump. A moment later, he heard a chuckle. He whirled around, taking in the room and the situation.

It was oval, with hundreds of posters on the walls. Each was a propaganda picture of the Chairman during various stages of his life. Some related to the Siberian War, others to the reunification of Taiwan. There were posters concerning hard work, more on worker safety, and more on exercise and dietary habits. Each showed the Chairman exhorting or lauding others for some good behavior.

Jian saw that he’d reached the final antechamber where the badly ailing Chairman lay in the flesh. The Chairman was propped up in a large mobile medical unit. It was like a huge American recliner, with a joystick-control. The old man looked small in it, with several medical tubes sticking into his side. He seemed mortally diseased and weak, the opposite of the security guards. Only the eyes were powerful, two pinpoints of energy.

“Welcome, Jian Hong,” the Chairman said. Somewhere on the chair, a microphone must have picked up the words. It amplified them, making the Chairman’s withered voice painfully loud as it bounced off the steel walls.

Jian silently congratulated himself on keeping his features neutral. It was said the Chairman took odd or fearful facial expressions in the worst light possible, usually as a sign of guilt.

“I’ve brought you down to my quarters so we can speak freely,” the Chairman said.

“It is an honor,” Jian said.

“There are many spies in the outer world.”

“Yes,” Jian said.

“And not just CIA spies, but Chinese spies—the creatures of those who yearn to oust me.”

A sick thrill of fear coursed through Jian. Was the Chairman toying with him before the old man ordered his arrest? The Chairman kidnapped his worst enemies and sent them to experimental stations, where indentured scientists practiced hideous tortures.

“Do you wonder why I wish to speak freely with you?” the Chairman asked, with his eyes bright.

“I thought it would be concerning the war.”

“The war against hunger?”

Jian wondered if he could sprint across the room and throttle the Chairman before he was cut down. He knew hidden marksmen watched behind the walls. If he made a threatening motion, bullets would riddle his body… or worse, they would sink knockout darts into him.

“I am at your service,” Jian said.

The Chairman’s chair swiveled as crooked fingers pressed controls. Part of the wall slid up to reveal a screen. “I have read statistics,” the Chairman said. “Our internal unrest is subsiding as the people watch news-shows and blogs about the war.”

“Your strategy was brilliant, sir.”

“Yes,” said the Chairman, “it was brilliant. But this is a waiting period only, as far as the people are concerned. We must quickly defeat the Americans.”

“We are winning the war,” Jian said.

“We are advancing in the Kenai Peninsula. But we are not necessarily winning.”

“I bow to your superior insights, sir.”

“As well you should. Didn’t my insights allow the military to conquer Siberia?”

“Most certainly, sir.”

“Was it not me who returned Taiwan to the mainland?”

“You have guided our nation through its hardest times.”

“You are uncommonly perceptive, Hong. It is one of the reasons I’ve given you political control of the invasion.”

“The honor you’ve heaped on me—” Jian shook his head. “I will do everything in my power to make sure the invasion succeeds.”

“I’m pleased to hear you say that. Very pleased.”

“I will not fail you, sir.”

“Tell me,” the Chairman said. “How does the cross-polar attack proceed?”

Before Jian could answer, an outline of the Alaskan North Slope coast appeared on the screen. Dead Horse was shown, as it was on the doorstep of the Prudhoe Bay oilfields. The pack ice stretched away from the coast. On the western portion of the pack ice was a dotted line, which ended at the west edge of the screen.

“You see before you the line of advance of our Cross-Polar Taskforce,” the Chairman said.

“It would seem that the general-in-charge has been tardy in his advance,” Jian said.

“Which is why,” said the Chairman, with a strange glitter in his eyes, “it was wise of me to allow Army High Command to give General Nung a special East Lightning Commissar.”

Jian didn’t understand what the Chairman was trying to imply. He therefore spoke carefully. “I’ve read General Nung’s biography. The man is considered an attack specialist.”

“Nung was an attack specialist.”

Jian bowed his head. “May I ask you to clarify something for me?”

“You may.”

“Why did Army High Command ask for an East Lightning Commissar to watch Nung? I though the Army and the Political Police were at odds with each other.”

“You know so little, Jian. You are like a child among wolves. It is your youth, I believe. It is also one of the reasons I have seen fit to give you a second chance at life.”

“Sir?” whispered Jian, the ability to keep his composure dwindling because of the direction of the conversation.

“How does one maintain power?”

“I would not presume to instruct the premier master on the subject.”

“That shows you have a modicum of wisdom. One of the key ingredients is to set your underlings at war with one another. Always give them overlapping areas of authority. That ensures they will squabble with each other, and in time, they will run to the highest authority to act as a judge on a particular dispute. It means the politically grasping underlings will spend their time and energy fighting each other instead of trying to topple the one in charge.”

“I see,” Jian said, and he did. It made him think of Deng Fong and him. The thought chilled Jian. He has pitted me against Deng.

“The members of Army High Command hate General Nung,” the Chairman said. “He is an outsider and Russian-trained in lightning warfare. The Russians have never forgotten the bitter lessons taught to them by the World War Two Germans.”

“Ah,” Jian said.

“Yet all that is beside the point. The cross-polar attack has stalled. I desire for you to travel to General Nung and put a fire under him.”

“Sir?”

“Nung must strike the North Slope oilfields now. He must do it as my naval soldiers drive into Anchorage. War is only partly about fighting. It is more about morale, about perceptions. If the Americans see every front crashing around them, they will be more willing to sue for peace. We need their grain, and we need it now. Therefore, I desire that we accelerate the pace of our attacks. It was my goal to try to coordinate these two events to bring about American hopelessness and to encourage their peace demonstrators to bring an end to what they will come to call ‘a senseless war.’”

“That is a brilliant plan and analysis, sir. My single concern is—”

“Is about your safety,” the Chairman said. “Yes, I know.”

Frightened, Jian bowed his head. “I would never disagree with you, sir. But my greatest concern is for China.”

“What is your point?”

“Uh…uh,” Jian said. “What is the fastest way to General Nung?”

“Very good,” the Chairman said. “I thought you were about to ask why I should send you instead of, say, Marshal Kao.”

“I’m completely convinced that you have your reasons, sir, and that few of us could understand the brilliance of those reasons.”

“Hmm, that is overly perceptive of you. Therefore, I will try to explain. My military commanders are like golf clubs. I used to be quite good at golf, you know.”

“Your exploits on the greens are legendary, sir.”

“Like golf clubs, one general is excellent for putts. Another is like a driving iron. General Nung is like a sand wedge, a fast attacker, one who yearns to lunge. I have waited in order to pick the correct time to use General Nung to make his lunge. I am a military genius, particularly when it comes to timing.”

“The entire world knows of your brilliance, sir.”

“No! The entire world believes that I fought a weak rump state named Siberia. I have read the books about the campaign. Many say that if Russia had the will to fight, they would have demolished the Chinese, and therefore my brilliant concepts.”

“The Europeans who wrote such drivel are small men, sir. Their obvious envy of you and your greatness disgusts me.”

“I grant you they are small-minded,” said the Chairman. “But many still listen to them. My point is this: I have carefully selected my generals, often letting rivalries blunt their particular specialties. I do that for carefully thought out reasons. I cannot send Marshal Kao across the ice to do as I desire, because the marshal hates General Nung. Kao will continue to spite the hard-charger. You, on the other hand, will surprise everyone. Because I am old, they will believe I am making a mistake sending you. Do you realize that many see you as a failure, as a bright Party member who cannot carry heavy loads?”

Jian nodded. He did not like the direction the conversation was going.

“You will unleash General Nung. You will urge him to attack the North Slope now. We must demoralize the Americans by twin hammer-blows and end the war quickly. As the great Sun Tzu has said: If the campaign is protracted, the resources of the state will not be equal to the strain. Already, I have sent mass shipments of munitions to the invasion fleet. Tank rounds, anti-air missiles, laser fuel—their needs seem endless.”

“May I ask another question, sir?”

“If you can stand more truth concerning yourself,” the Chairman said.

“Why not send a radio signal, urging Nung to this action? Is there a reason why I should travel across the ice?”

“Indeed, Jian Hong. So you may see what your handiwork has wrought. If you are to become the next Chairman of China, I desire that you have some inkling of what war brings.”

“Sir?” whispered Jian.

“Yes,” the Chairman said. “I have decided to groom you to take my place. You shall need a military exploit, however, to cement your position among the contenders. That is why I send you to General Nung. Once we are victorious there, people will say it was your genius that did it. I send you across the ice to give you a great victory to your credit.”

“No one can take your place, sir,” Jian said, dropping to his knees and bowing his head.

“…you are much wiser than I had suspected. Hmm, get up. Go, and hurry to the airport. Your supersonic jet leaves for Ambarchik Base in the hour. From there, you will fly to General Nung.”

Jian bowed again, and he would have lauded the Chairman with more praise. But the old man’s chair sped toward another opening that appeared in the wall. And the Chairman left the room. As the opening closed, the first steel door opened, revealing the two waiting security guards.

Jian decided this was the wrong moment for reflection. He strode toward the two, wondering if he’d made a miscalculation concerning the Chairman. Maybe instead of playing the old creature, the withered conqueror had been playing him. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and one that would require deep thought. First, however, he needed to survive this journey onto the polar ice.

After twelve hours of skiing, with a two-hour nap sandwiched between, Paul was exhausted. As they’d traveled, they’d seen more blinking red lights. Three times, they had hit the ice and lain motionless. One time, Red Cloud claimed to hear a chopper’s whomp. Paul had closed his eyes to help him concentrate, but all he’d heard was the steady moan of the arctic wind. Now it was different. Now they heard a plane revving its engines.

“There,” Paul said, panting.

They both hit the ice again. The revving grew louder, but still they saw nothing in the dark Arctic night. After several minutes of this, Paul leaned onto his side, halfway opening his parka.

They had to be careful as they traveled. They had to make sure they didn’t sweat too much. If they did sweat, they had to air themselves out so the moisture didn’t freeze on their bodies and chill them. Paul had learned this winter rule in northern Quebec. It was even truer out here.

Now in the darkness they saw the outline of a cargo plane as it lifted over a pressure ridge and climbed into the polar night. The engines roared, and the plane passed to their right. In time, the sound and plane dwindled, allowing them to hear the hidden camp.

They climbed to their feet and skied to the pressure ridge. It was about twenty feet tall. Paul unhooked his boots from the bindings and laid his skis at the bottom of the ridge. He waited for Red Cloud, then the two of them climbed the icy chunks. Soon, Paul eased to the top, peering over.

“Are you seeing this?” Paul whispered.

“Hovertanks, caterpillars, planes and supplies—what is going on?” asked Red Cloud.

Paul unlimbered his assault rifle, propping it on the ice. He put his eye to the lens and began to study the camp. There were lights strung up and headlamps from various vehicles. He also spied large piles of crates, big tents, a hovercraft park—ah. He noticed a long runway with blinking yellow lights on either side. Small bulldozers pushed snow and ice around it, making ice-walls.

“How did the Chinese get here?” Paul asked.

Like Paul, Red Cloud used the scope of his assault rifle to study the dark camp. “My guess is some of them drove across the ice from Siberia. The others were flown in.”

Paul swore softly, and he began to nod. “Maybe it makes sense then their taking out our oil rig. Their line of advance must have taken them near the platform. They killed everyone there because they didn’t want anyone to know what they’re doing.”

“How could they hide this from American and Canadian radar?” asked Red Cloud, “to say nothing about the airlines.”

“Are you kidding? What airlines?”

“Most international flights from Europe to America use the north polar route. It’s shorter going over the top than around. But even that is beside the point. Recon satellites could pinpoint these vehicles through infrared signature. And there are early warning radar stations in Alaska and Canada. Could the Chinese have attacked those stations to blind the North Americans?”

“What if the international flights have stopped?” asked Paul.

“That still leaves the recon satellites.”

“What if the Chinese knocked down the satellites?” Paul asked. “I’ve read about that. Each country’s ABM lasers routinely destroy spy satellites flying over their heartlands. Why not knock them all down? And the radar stations—maybe the Chinese are using highly advanced EW.”

“Electronic warfare?” asked Red Cloud.

“Since taking Taiwan, invading the two Koreas and allying with Japan,” Paul said, “Chinese EW has leapt way ahead of American battlefield tech.”

“Radar is different,” Red Cloud said.

“Remember the stealth fighters we used to deploy?”

Red Cloud grunted.

“Maybe the planes we’ve seen do something like those stealth fighters.”

“I suppose it is possible,” Red Cloud said. “But why would China attack America?”

“Don’t know.”

“I do not either. I can’t believe such an attack is likely.”

Paul laughed grimly. “I wouldn’t have thought it likely until White Tiger Commandos killed everyone at Platform P-53. Something has hit the fan, that’s for sure. Now here’s a Chinese base, what, two hundred miles from the Alaskan coast?”

“The White Tigers destroyed an oil rig,” Red Cloud said thoughtfully, “and oil is the only international commodity northern Alaska possesses. Maybe this is a gathering force meant to destroy the Alaskan oilfields.”

“Yeah. That would be my guess, too. The Chinese want to cripple the American economy. I wonder why they want to do that, however.”

“It is always about power,” Red Cloud said, “which means money, which means one man stealing from another.”

“That’s a pretty grim view, Chief. Sorry. Delete the last word. I meant to say Red Cloud.”

Red Cloud looked solemnly at Paul. “We survived the slaughter at Platform P-53. We are brothers of the warpath.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you seen enough?”

“Meaning what?”

“We must hurry to Dead Horse and warn the Americans.”

Paul chewed his lower lip. He was thinking about his promise to Murphy. “I don’t know. Two hundred miles on skis will take us at least ten more days. In ten days, all the Alaskan oilfields might be burning. We have to do something before that.”

“Two men cannot attack the base.”

“Actually,” Paul said. “Two men can easily attack the base. It’s doing anything useful that’s doubtful.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That we get a radio out of there,” Paul said. “If Dead Horse is two hundred miles away, we could contact them.”

“No one in Dead Horse would believe us.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when the time comes,” Paul said. “For now, I want a radio.”

“And how do we get this radio? Do we ski in and ask them?”

“No. We crawl there and steal one.”

“Do you truly think this is possible?”

Paul recalled some of the things he’d done in Quebec. “Yeah, I do. Are you game?”

Red Cloud turned away and stared up at the Aurora Borealis. Soon, he nodded. “After what they did at the oil rig, I want to make the Chinese pay.”

“That’s the spirit,” Paul said, who had half-hoped Red Cloud would try to talk him out of this. He wanted to keep his promise to Murphy, but he also wanted to make it home to Mikey and Cheri. Could he do both? Well, he sure as heck was going to find out.

After studying the enemy camp for over an hour, Paul Kavanagh and Red Cloud crawled across the pack ice like seals. They’d left the toboggan behind, along with the backpacks, skis and assault rifles. Each had a knife. Red Cloud had a long Algonquin blade, a crude-looking thing that was similar to a Bowie Knife. Paul had a Gerber combat knife, a nasty thing with high-grade steel and matte-black paint.

Paul had explained it like this: “If we have to use our assault rifles, we’re dead men.”

“That is true,” Red Cloud said. “But if we are dead men, let us take some of them down to death with us.”

“Forget that. If you want to act like a ninja you have to arm like one.”

“We have our grenades: two fragmentation and one phosphorous.”

“I’ll take the phosphorous grenade,” Paul said. “You concentrate on your knife. Sneak into the camp, kill only as a last resort and sneak back out with our radio. We’ll let the air force do the killing.”

“What air force?”

“If it comes to that,” Paul said, “the American Air Force.”

The two of them slowly crawled across the ice. Both knew that motion, particularly any kind of fast motion, caught the attention of the human eye.

The polar camp had crate piles, big tents and bulldozer-made ice-walls. Between some of the ice-walls were huge tubular bladders containing something liquid.

“I suspect diesel fuel,” had been Red Cloud’s guess.

There were also smoothed lanes leading to the crate piles, to the tents and to other places. After an hour of study, Paul concluded the tents held supplies. This looked like a supply dump.

“It seems foolish,” Paul said, “but I think they’re storing ammo and fuel close together.”

“Maybe they’re not worried about an attack.”

“That’s why I said it was foolish. You should always worry about that.”

In the darkness, Paul and Red Cloud counted eight hovertanks, six small bulldozers and four Thunder-10 transport planes waiting to be offloaded. There were also two big supply helicopters. Red Cloud estimated about sixty Chinese, maybe twelve of them stacking supplies. The most interesting thing had been a laser caterpillar coming off a transport. From another plane had come a towed 30mm flak-gun. The two large devices were anti-air defense weapons, meaning that maybe the Chinese did expect eventual attacks. If that was true, it was even crazier to store fuel and ammo in the same supply dump.

As Paul crawled across the ice, he kept his gaze un-focused. Most people could sense a person staring at them. Paul wanted to be aware of where the nearest Chinese were, but he didn’t want to stare at a man and make him feel uncomfortable.

“As you crawl into their camp, you have to go somewhere else in your mind,” Paul had explained to Red Cloud.

During the slow crawl, an unloaded cargo plane used the airstrip. It revved its engines, roared down the runway and banked north, heading up into the night sky.

Just what did it mean that the Chinese were building a supply dump this close to Alaska? Just how big of a raid were they planning against the oilfields—if that was the Chinese desire? How did the attackers plan to make their escape? It was dangerous being on the ice. It was even more dangerous using heavy military vehicles and fighting on the ice.

As he crawled, Paul shook his head. Don’t worry about that now. Just find your radio and crawl away.

Paul neared one of the tents. It was big enough for a man to walk into and it was made of some kind of shiny, synthetic material. It had pegs hammered into the ice and lines to keep the tent taut. There was a two-foot ice-wall here, a perimeter wall. Ever since they’d been unpacked from a transport, the Chinese bulldozers must have been busy.

The eight hovertanks were on the other side of the camp, where the airstrip was. Paul could hear bulldozers, although they were a ways off. Nearer the perimeter wall, he heard men speaking Chinese.

Are any of these soldiers White Tiger Commandos? Does my promise mean I have to kill them now, or can I wait for a better time?

Paul stopped so he lay motionless on the ice. From where he was, he spied the head and shoulders of three workers. They moved to one of the tents, which was approximately fifty yards away. One of them moved from his fellows, undid his fly and took a leak.

Later, two soldiers reappeared. They carted what looked like an ammo crate between them. They moved the crate into one of the tents.

How well will the ammo keep in this cold? The military had had trouble with that in Quebec. Thinking about that, Paul realized he was becoming cold. The ice hungrily sucked the warmth from his body.

“We must move in,” Red Cloud whispered.

It seemed like a bad idea to try it now, but frostbite was an even worse idea, especially frostbite along his belly. Without nodding or saying a word, Paul began crawling. He moved slowly, too slowly to keep warm.

The Chinese would have spotted them except for three things: One, that perimeter wall gave them a bit of cover. Two, it was dark. And three, the workers kept their heads down. The soldiers concentrated on the ammo crates more than their surroundings.

Paul realized there were only two Chinese nearby. Just two men, two of the soldiers who had killed everyone at Platform P-53. As he thought about P-53, the old anger began to build in him. It roiled in his chest like a living thing and radiated outward to his limbs. It was hard sneaking around an enemy camp. It was even harder to kill a man in cold blood. To just get up and stick a knife into a man… most people could never do it. It did violence to their basic human nature. Paul had been trained, however, and he had killed before, but it was still hard for him to kill a man who wasn’t fighting back. He needed the anger in order to push himself toward what needed doing. So he thought of Murphy, and he told himself these soldiers had known about the killings and they had laughed about Murphy dying alone in a stalled cat.

“Okay, you bastards,” Paul whispered. He was twenty yards away from the perimeter wall. He was freezing cold and he didn’t think these two were going to go anywhere else anytime soon.

The two heavily-bundled Chinese moved to a new snow-caterpillar that had just pulled up between the rows of tents. That made it three Chinese now, which included the cat driver. The two working soldiers moved to the back of the caterpillar.

Three Chinese, I have to kill three men fast with a knife.

Paul paused, and he unbuttoned his parka. He needed whatever advantage he could get. Slowly, he slipped out of the parka. An icy cold squeezed his ill-clad flesh. He clenched his teeth, drew his knife and waited for the moment to charge. Red Cloud moved beside him.

The pair of soldiers returned and entered the tent with a crate.

Paul rose up, jumped the perimeter wall and sprinted to the tent. Behind him, he heard a softly grunted curse—Red Cloud. Paul reached the tent, slipping past the flap.

The Chinese soldiers heaved a crate onto the top of a pile. With the sound of scraping wood, they shoved the crate into place.

Paul sprang like a panther as the nearest Chinese turned around. Paul rammed a knee into the man’s soft stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh of pain and shock. Then Paul leaned forward, placing one hand firmly over the soldier’s mouth. He put his weight behind his knifepoint. It went in like a skewer into carefully tenderized steak, sinking without a sound. Paul felt the body tense with the agony. Then he twisted the blade so it tore the soldier’s lungs and heart apart in one savage moment, killing the man instantly.

The soldier’s back arched and his teeth clenched on Paul’s palm. Blood trickled from the soldier’s nostrils and his eyes protruded as if he’d been strangled.

Paul withdrew his knife and wiped the blade on the soldier’s parka. He felt dirty killing like this. It was horrible work, but so was Murphy dying alone in a stalled cat.

Red Cloud’s soldier lay on the crates, his throat cut and blood pumping out and misting in the cold.

“There’s still the one in the caterpillar,” Paul whispered.

“We must hurry. Our luck can’t last much longer.”

Paul and Red Cloud strode out of the tent, their knives ready.

“You tap on his window,” Paul said. “I’ll come in from the passenger-side.”

The caterpillar was parked ten feet away. Red Cloud went around the back.

Paul took six rapid steps. Then he heard Red Cloud knocking on the soldier’s window. Paul opened the caterpillar’s passenger-side door. A Chinese man listening to his earphones looked up at Red Cloud. Paul could hear the tinny musical sounds as he climbed into the warm cab. The Chinese soldier whirled around, stared at Paul and went for his gun as he shouted. Paul thrust the Gerber blade into the man throat, the knife grating against neck-bones.

Red Cloud opened the door and twisted the soldier’s head, dragging him outside and burying his face into the snow. He stabbed the Chinese soldier, finishing the grisly task.

The radio in here—Paul used his bloody knife and pried and tore it out of the dash.

“What now?” Red Cloud asked.

“We use our grenade and hope they think one of the ammo crates went off on accident. Help me drag the corpses into the cat’s back.”

Once all three copses lay among the ammo crates, Paul told Red Cloud. “Go on, run like the wind.”

Red Cloud stared at him. Then the Algonquin sprinted away from the caterpillar. In the darkness, he hurdled over the perimeter wall and ran across the ice for the nearest pressure ridge.

Paul worked feverishly as he opened a crate. It was artillery ammo. With his knife, he made some quick adjustments, arming the shells. Swallowing hard, Paul pulled the pin and set the phosphorous grenade amongst the readied shells. Then he whirled around, picked up the radio and sprinted. He leaped over the ice-wall and ran. In the distance, he saw the dark blot of Red Cloud ahead of him. He counted the seconds.

Then he hit the ice, sliding across it, and he began crawling, hoping to put more distance between himself and what was about to come. A millisecond later, a terrific explosion rent the Arctic stillness. The shockwave lifted Paul, tossing him over the ice. Secondary explosions began as the ammo began to cook off.

All the while, a dazed Paul Kavanagh, with his parka, continued crawling, hoping that none of the shrapnel hit him.

Jian Hong hated the bitter cold of Siberia. It had been a shock climbing down the supersonic plane into this miserable place. The cold had hit as a hammer, driving icicle nails into his bones. He’d saw the base’s square buildings and the polar ice that had spread into the Arctic distance. According to the general explaining the situation, the darkness gripping this land would not relent for many months.

Jian had landed several hours ago, having made the trip in record time from Beijing. Now he was supposed to enter another plane and fly over the ice toward Alaska. That was madness, sheer insanity. He no longer believed the Chairman. He was certain the old man lulled those he was about to use. Telling him he was going to be the next Chairman—Jian was certain that had been a ruse. He had to take more risks to outsmart the clever old man dying in his underground bunker.

“Turn up the heat,” Jian said.

“Sir?” asked the general.

They stood in a large chamber filled with computer maps and working personnel. Lieutenant-General Bai was medium-sized, with a round head and an immaculate uniform. His polished shoes shone so splendidly that at times Jian could see himself reflected in them. The military personnel at work covertly watched him. Jian could feel their gazes, but he’d yet to catch a soldier directly staring at him. Maybe they feared his bodyguards. Three of his team stood against the wall. They kept their hands on the butt of their guns, watching everyone. Their presence comforted Jian. He need merely point and they would shoot an offender.

“I’m still cold from walking around your freezing base,” Jian said. “I want it warm in here so I can think.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant-General Bai, who turned and uttered a quiet word. Soon, extra heat billowed into the room.

“Yes, that’s better,” Jian said.

He hadn’t had time after leaving the Chairman’s bunker to speak with either Admiral Qiang or Police Minister Xiao. He would have liked to compare notes with them or even ask Xiao’s opinion on the Chairman’s odd behavior.

What can I possibly do out on the ice that I cannot do from Ambarchik Base? It is a preposterous thing that I am so far from the seat of power.

“It’s the logistics problem that presses against us hardest,” said Lieutenant-General Bai.

“What?” Jian asked crossly. This lieutenant-general had been trying to brief him for some time already. Did the man truly think he’d come out here to fix problems? This journey was a farce at best and a carefully laid trap at worst.

“Logistics, sir,” Bai said. “It is the movement of supplies from the factories to the fighting men.”

“I’m well aware what logistics is. I used to be the Agricultural Minister.”

Bai blinked at him. One of the other personnel started coughing sharply.

Before Jian could demand an explanation—he scowled as he scanned the chamber—Bai touched his left wrist. Jian recoiled at the bodily contact.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Bai. “I’m…I could use your expertise.”

Jian rubbed the back of his hand against his parka. How dare this man touch him? It was an insult.

“Umm, as I was saying, sir,” said Bai. “It’s a matter of logistics. The length of the supply-line across the Arctic ice has stretched our resources to the breaking point.”

“That makes no sense,” Jian said. “You haven’t even started attacking yet.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bai, dipping his head as he preformed a small bow. “I realize that. But maybe if I explained the situation in greater detail…?”

“Explain if you must,” Jian said, who kept trying to think of an excuse. He didn’t want to travel across the ice.

“Sir, normally a soldier outside his own country needs one hundred pounds of supplies a day.”

“So much as that?” asked Jian.

Bai bowed his head. “In the Arctic, the need rises dramatically. Now to move a ton of supplies one hundred kilometers by rail takes fourteen ounces of fuel. A large cargo ship will take approximately half that.”

“We’re not shipping supplies by train or ship across the ice.”

“Exactly, sir. A normal truck consumes one percent of the supplies moved per one hundred kilometers.”

“Why this choice of words? What do you mean by ‘normal?’”

“On the ice we use highly modified caterpillars instead of ordinary military trucks. The caterpillars consume two percent of their load traveling every one hundred kilometers. That is twice as much as a normal truck.”

“Is that a problem?” asked Jian.

“The bitter cold wears on our Arctic caterpillar-haulers four to five times as much it would on normal trucks. Perhaps as importantly, the caterpillar-haulers travel slowly over the ice, seldom more than twenty kilometers per hour.”

“Is that because of the wave effect?”

“Exactly, sir. Because of a number of factors, particularly our efforts to leapfrog the supplies, we are moving the majority of our goods by air. Once again, the extreme environment affects our efforts adversely. For instance, Arctic airfreight consumes five percent of the supplies per one hundred kilometers moved. The forward bases are over two thousand kilometers away.”

“It sounds to me like a mathematical problem,” Jian said.

“The extreme weather has caused more breakdowns than we anticipated. We have begged for a rush of winterized parts, but they have been slow in coming.”

“I will make some calls,” Jian said.

“We would be most grateful, sir. Could I explain another facet?”

“Of course,” Jian said. “It is one of the reasons why I’m here.”

“It’s called wastage.”

Jian scowled at the lieutenant-general.

“I know you understand all this, sir,” Bai hastened to say. “The wastage I’m talking about today is the daily losses of troops and vehicles.”

“Have you secretly begun fighting the enemy?”

“No, sir, the cold fights us, the bitter weather. We’ve been losing approximately forty men a day to the weather, mostly because of hypothermia. Unfortunately, there are a higher percentage of mechanical failures with the snowtanks and hovers. Once we enter battle, the attrition to both men and vehicles will surely rise.”

Jian appeared thoughtful. He wasn’t here to figure out problems like this. He was here to light a fire under General Nung. Yet maybe here was the answer to his dilemma. Under no circumstances did he desire to travel over the Arctic ice as the military fought the Americans.

“Yes, I see the problem,” Jian said. “We must increase the supplies, rush more winterized parts to Ambarchik and attack the North Slope at once.”

“Sir?” asked Bai.

“If we are losing men and vehicles just getting into position, how many will we lose while waiting to attack?”

“Probably just as much, sir.”

“Then we must attack now!” Jian said, smacking a fist into a palm. He would put a fire under them. He’d have his bodyguards shoot anyone who disagreed with him to show them he was serious. “We will lose our fighting men in the cauldron of combat instead of to the weather.”

“Well…” said Bai, who glanced at an officer standing nearby.

“I’m not interested in excuses, General. You must radio Nung—”

“We’ve been practicing long-distance radio silence, sir. This is a delicate operation. We cannot let the Americans know our exact whereabouts, not until we reach solid ground.”

As Jian gripped Bai’s left shoulder, he smiled as a father would to his son. Oh, this was perfect. “I am naming you as my special envoy to General Nung.”

“Sir?” asked a bewildered Bai.

“This hour you will board a plane and fly out to General Nung.”

“The general is in one of the forward positions, sir. That could be close to eighteen hundred kilometers away. The trip will take time.”

“The great distance is the reason why I’m sending you, a man of authority. You will tell General Nung to rouse himself and attack at once. I will tolerate no more delays from him. He must use whatever tanks and planes are ready and rush into battle. Chinese soldiers are dying fighting the Americans near Anchorage. Nung is no longer allowed to sit on the sidelines as he gathers supplies and shifts his tanks here and there. He is like a man diddling himself, and I will simply not have it. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do, sir,” said Bai, who stared at Jian in wonder. Finally, Bai seemed to remember whom he spoke to. “Umm, Minister Hong, could I point out one troubling problem to your order?”

“If you must,” Jian said, scowling. He attempted to radiate his determination, hoping to affect the others in the room.

“I am in charge of supplies, sir, as it is my area of expertise. Ambarchik Base is the critical supply depot. The strength of General Nung’s soldiers is directly related to how well we keep the blood of clothes, fuel, spare parts, ammo and food pumping to them.”

“Do you feel yourself to be indispensable?” Jian asked coldly.

“Sir, General Nung and I have worked together for many years. He is the fighting soldier and I keep him supplied. He gave me explicit orders to—”

“One of the reasons I’m here is that General Nung is not fighting. His reputation lacks any virtue this time around. Men call him a fighter and yet he waits like a woman for a man to call. You will tell him I said that.”

“But Minister—”

“I have given my order,” Jian said in a silky voice. “Must I enforce it as well?” he asked, glancing at his bodyguards.

Bai caught the direction of his gaze. Bai bowed his head, but seemed unable to find words.

Once again, Jian gripped the man’s shoulder. “You have told me you two are close friends. Good. He will believe you then when I tell him that the Chairman is very unhappy with his progress. Tell Nung he is to attack. If he fails to attack—then on his return, he will be shot.”

The room fell silent, and Bai grew pale.

“I will do as you order, sir,” said Bai.

“I knew you would.” Jian smiled and studied the personnel around him. None dared to meet his gaze. The feeling of being watched had stopped. It felt good to wield power so decisively. Crack the whip and watch the ants scurry to their tasks. Perhaps he would become the new Chairman. First, he would show the world his command style by giving the order that ended with the capture of the Alaskan oilfields. He would put a fire under this General Nung. He’d make everyone obey his will as he began to implement the Chairman’s treasured command trick of setting his underlings against each other’s throats.

The pack ice crackled and splintered, the sound like a thousand snowballs hitting a wall.

Paul scrambled to his feet as he glanced over his shoulder. Red Cloud jumped up, too. The continued cracking made the pack ice under Paul’s feet tremble. It reminded him the ice was no more than three and-a-half feet thick here. He had the sick feeling the ice would continue splintering and plunge him into the freezing Arctic Ocean.

They had survived their mad gamble and managed to get out of the Chinese supply dump. They had also connected a power-source with the stolen radio and tried many different bands. Finally, Paul had spoken with the Marine battalion headquarters stationed in Dead Horse. They discovered the U.S. was at war with China.

“I can’t talk long,” Paul had said. “So listen close and start taking this down.”

He’d explained about Platform P-53, the White Tiger Commandos and the Chinese supply dump near his position. Then he’d told the operator that he would call back in an hour. Paul and Red Cloud both feared having the Chinese find their frequency and sending someone out to kill or capture them. They had both agreed never to surrender.

“Check the parts of my story that you can. Then when I radio back in an hour you can tell me if you’re going to believe me or not.”

An hour later, he and Red Cloud had found themselves talking to a Marine captain. The Marine believed them all right. The captain had also told them that a submarine was coming to meet them. They were supposed to remain where they were and wait for the submarine’s appearance.

As the ice cracked and splintered nearby, they still waited.

“It takes longer to surface than one realizes,” Red Cloud said.

Paul nodded. They’d dragged the toboggan away from the splintering sounds. From a safe distance, they now watched as the black sail of an American submarine broke through the pack ice and rose like a steel tower. In time, a hatch at the top rose into view. A man emerged, a good two stories higher up than they were.

Paul cupped his hands as hope surged through him. We’ve been rescued. “Down here!” he shouted. “We’re over here.” Paul waved his arms.

A spotlight came on, washing them in light. Soon, several soldiers appeared on the sail. The soldiers used rungs and climbed down.

Paul recognized their insignia. They were U.S. Army Special Forces, sometimes known as Green Berets. That surprised him. They were from the 1st SFG, an A-Detachment. They were America’s premier unconventional soldiers. What were they doing out here on the pack ice?

Special Forces soldiers jumped onto the ice and jogged toward them. Each cradled a stubby assault rifle. Several of the soldiers surrounded them, half the guns were trained on Red Cloud and the rest on Paul. A master sergeant shined a light first in Red Cloud’s face and then on Paul’s.

“All clear,” the master sergeant said into a microphone on his shoulder.

“Are you taking us aboard?” asked Paul.

“Negative,” the master sergeant said. “Now tell me exactly what happened to you.”

It took time. As Paul talked, with occasional anecdotes added by Red Cloud, sailors with axes climbed down the sail. They chopped at the pack ice. It was grunt work. In time, the main body of the submarine appeared. The sailors went to a larger hatch, which mechanically opened. The sailors wrestled out snowmobiles and hooked up sled attachments.

“Are those for us?” asked Paul.

“The fewer questions you ask,” said the master sergeant, “the better it will be for you.”

“Is that a fact?” Paul said.

Several of the Special Forces guards raised their assault guns a trifle higher as they eyed Paul with greater hostility.

The master sergeant nodded. He was about Paul’s size. “You don’t like that. I can understand. The truth is you did good—as good as any of us could have done.”

“I’m Marine Recon and I did better than any of you could have done.”

“You’re ex-Marine Recon,” the master sergeant said. “They discharged you and I can see why. We checked your files, but we believe you two anyway.”

“Wonderful,” Paul said. “Now if those snowmobiles aren’t for us and you’re not giving us a ride back, why are you here?”

“To hear your story,” the master sergeant said.

“That’s it, huh?” asked Paul. “Ask us for intel and then leave us stranded out here?”

“Don’t be bitter, pal. There’s a war on and we’re getting our butts kicked. So we’re starting to play hardball again.” The master sergeant unhooked a walkie-talkie, handing it to Paul. “Use this after we’re gone, say—” the man checked his watch “—in thirty minutes. There’s a bush plane on the way for you. They’ll pick you up and take you back to Dead Horse. But be warned, the people in Dead Horse will want you to help them fight.”

“That suits me,” Paul said. “I have some payback coming for the White Tigers.”

“I thought it might be like that. You two did good, both of you. Now we’re going to give these Chinese a bloody nose—thanks to you. Sorry if I have to do it this way, but I have my orders.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “And good luck to whatever it is you guys are doing.”

“You’ve given us our first bearing on them. They’ve used—and keep using—some fancy EW on us and some hard-to-spot planes. Now we’re going to teach them we Americans play for keeps.” The master sergeant leaned near, whispering, “Don’t look back no matter what you hear. You might even want to cover your eyes then.”

“You aren’t talking nuclear, are you?” asked Paul.

“We’re not, but I hear somebody is.” The master sergeant brushed his nose. “If I were you, I’d get out of here fast.”

Paul nodded. “Maybe we’ll start heading south now then.”

The master sergeant eyed him and Red Cloud. “I’m supposed to detain you until the sub is ready to dive, but you two have been through enough. Go on, start walking.”

“Semper Fi,” Paul said, holding out his hand.

“Same to you, Marine,” the master sergeant said, shaking hands. He had a strong grip. Then he shook Red Cloud’s hand. “If I were you two, I’d hurry.”

Paul and Red Cloud took his advice, stumping to their skis and hooking them back to their boots. The master sergeant waved as they skied away. His men waved. Paul and Red Cloud waved back. Then the two of them concentrated on putting as much distance between the others as they could.

“That’s the full extent of what we have, sir,” General Alan told the President.

Anna Chen sat underground in White House Bunker Number Five. This was an emergency session. Everyone sitting at the circular conference table looked worn and tired. Some were groggy.

Everyday there was more bad news. The President took it the hardest. His shoulders had slumped and the bags around his eyes had become discolored. Whenever U.S. resistance grew toughest along Highway One, the Chinese called for the tri-turreted tanks. The T-66s always smashed through or chased away the defenders, and the Chinese advance continued. General Alan had explained how enemy minesweepers were busy at work in Cook Inlet. Once the Chinese Navy cleared the inlet and took Anchorage, then South Central Alaska was lost. Once South Central Alaska was lost, the State was as good as gone. The consensus in the chamber was that Anchorage’s fate would decide the war.

“We need a decision, sir,” General Alan said.

The President compressed his lips.

Anna’s heart went out to Clark. The conflict had aged him. This decision… it was likely the hardest of his life.

General Alan had just explained that if the U.S. military could save Alaska, America could still lose the oil war. The fate of the North Slope oilfields was critical to the national economy. It was the lifeblood giving America time as they switched to heavy coal use and various forms of solar-power. The general had been telling them about the Chinese threatening to attack the oilfields with their ice-mobile formations.

“We have too few men on the ground in and around the North Slope to win any fight,” General Alan now added. “I’m amazed and surprised at their feat. The Chinese have moved tanks and hovers almost all the way across the polar ice.”

“What about air?” the President asked.

“They’ve used special air-transports,” General Alan said.

“I mean our air,” the President said. “Let us hit them with air strikes.”

Thin General Alan shook his head. “The constant air battles over the Kenai Front have decimated our Air Force, sir. You know how the Air Force generals kept begging for more reinforcements. Then Sims demands more air cover. As the Chinese gained air superiority in south Alaska, they hunted down our supply columns. Do you remember giving your okay, sir, for the transfer of winterized fighters from the North Slope to Anchorage?”

President Clark wearily shook his head.

“We’ve stripped the North Front, sir,” General Alan said. “We hardly have anything left near the Prudhoe Bay oilfields or ANWR.”

The President looked stricken.

Maybe it compelled General Alan to add, “Because of that, sir, we haven’t completely lost the air war on the Southern Front.”

The President bent at the waist as he put his hands on the table and rested his forehead on his hands. The moment lasted several seconds. Abruptly, he sat up and glanced at Anna.

“You know the Chairman better than anyone else,” Clark said. “What do you think his response will be?”

Anna blinked in amazement as she realized what he asked her. The President of the United States was passing the decision to her. If she told Clark the Chairman would go nuclear, the President would decide against the Navy plan. In that moment, Anna felt a tremendous weight settle onto her heart. It was galling. She found it difficult to breathe. She had an inkling then what it meant being the President at a time like this.

Anna felt the eyes on her. Everyone waited on her words. In a strange way, it reminded her of long ago in the teenage beauty pageant. Then everyone had watched and weighed her. Anna Chen frowned, concentrating. She wanted a sip of water, but she was afraid to reach for it. She didn’t want to see her hand tremble. She didn’t want anyone else to see that.

Anna looked at President Clark. “Sir,” she said, “this situation seems different from the previous discussion to use nuclear weapons. This time our military would do it away from prying eyes and in a hidden manner. And you’re leaving the Chairman his primary military forces. For him, that might make all the difference.”

Clark’s mouth moved, but no words came.

“Do you understand what you’re saying?” asked the Secretary of State.

Anna nodded. She knew. They were talking about using one nuclear weapon to hit the Chinese now on the pack ice and scare them. Afterward, the Joint Chiefs would use a different plan to hinder the Arctic Chinese.

The President licked his lips. “This strike won’t unleash a nuclear holocaust?”

“I’m not a military expert,” Anna said. “I’m only considering the Chairman’s psychology. The critical factor as far I can see is that the attack is hidden from the world’s eyes. More than anything else, the Chairman abhors public humiliation. As I said before, this leaves the Chairman’s military units intact. He has an inordinate attachment to the military and hates high Chinese losses. He believes such losses confirm old stereotypes concerning China. What you’re planning in the Arctic, it seems to me it prevents the Chairman from achieving his goal. But without doing it in a single devastating attack that obliterates all Chinese polar forces. It allows the Chairman to retreat and therefore he is not pushed into a corner where he feels he must hit back tit-for-tat.”

The President stared at her. He nodded then, and he turned to General Alan. “Tell them yes, I approve of the plan.”

Paul turned and lightly punched Red Cloud on the shoulder. “Can you believe it?”

Red Cloud shook his head.

A plane taxied down the ice toward them. Its propeller twirled and the engine idled. Finally, the small bush plane came to a stop on the ice, its lights bright in the polar darkness.

Red Cloud unhooked the harness from his shoulders, leaving the toboggan where it lay. Paul shook off his backpack, listening to it thump on the ice. Then he kicked off his skis and ran toward the plane. Both men kept their assault rifles.

Paul beat Red Cloud to the bush plane. He ducked under the wing, yanked open the door and shouted, “You Pilot Pete?”

“That’s me, mate,” a small bearded man said. He wore heavy clothing as heat billowed out of the cramped interior.

Paul slid off his assault rifle and stowed it within. Next, he shoved in the Chinese radio. Then he hoisted himself up and slid toward the back. Red Cloud followed his example and soon slammed the door shut. The Algonquin sat up front with the pilot.

“I know you,” Pete told Red Cloud.

The Algonquin nodded.

“So it’s really true?” asked Pete. “The Chinese murdered everyone at Platform P-53?”

“It is true,” Red Cloud said in a grave voice.

“Let’s get out of here!” Paul shouted from the back. “I think the Navy is about to trigger a nuke against the Chinese.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” shouted Pete.

“Go, go,” Paul said, “and don’t look back. In fact, if it looks like the sun is coming up or starting to shine, it means the Navy ignited a nuke.”

“He is right,” Red Cloud said. “We must hurry.”

Pete turned to his joystick. “Hang on.” He pushed the stick forward as the engine began to roar.

Paul sat back in his seat. This felt glorious. He had a heavy growth of beard and mustache, and it had been a long time since he’d felt anything but the warmth of his own breath held under a sleeping bag. Now warmth flooded the cramped cabin. He settled back and enjoyed the thrill of the bush plane bumping over the ice. He looked outside, amazed at how fast they were going.

There was an extra roar of noise, and the bush plane lifted. Paul let out a war whoop. It caused Pete to jerk around.

“Don’t do that,” Pete said. “It freaks me out.”

“Sorry,” Paul said. “You just have no idea how I feel.”

“I sure do. I’ve been lost before in the wilds. Yep, it’s good to get back to civilization. Right now, this plane is civilization to you.”

Paul nodded, and his eyelids grew heavy. It felt so good just to relax. He was going home. He’d see Cheri and Mikey again. He could hardly believe it. As he thought these beautiful things, the bush plane continued to climb into the night sky.

The USS Mississippi was a Virginia-class nuclear attack submarine. It had waited in the ice as the two Blacksand mercenaries skied away. The submarine waited as the Special Forces team had roared away on the snowmobiles.

That had been many hours ago. Now finally, a signal arrived from Dead Horse. It had traveled all the way from the White House. The captain was asleep in his bunk when the chief knocked on wood paneling.

“I’m up, Chief,” the captain said from his bunk.

Without disturbing the curtain guarding the captain’s privacy, the chief relayed the radio message.

Soon, the captain swept the curtain aside. He wore his officer’s hat and he had buttoned on his uniform. Solemnly, he strode to his place near the periscope. Per his orders, the USS Mississippi eased out of the pack ice and sank into the frigid waters. The submarine headed onto a new bearing.

“Prepare the torpedo,” the captain said.

The members of the bridge crew stared at him.

“This is not a drill,” the captain said quietly.

That began a flurry of motion aboard the USS Mississippi. Sixteen minutes and thirty-two seconds later, a blast of air expelled the nuclear-tipped torpedo from its tube. Then the electric motor engaged. The big torpedo headed toward a precise heading under the ice.

“Turn her around, Chief,” the captain said, “and take us down. We don’t want to be anywhere near here once it goes off.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief said, an old man and gray-haired. In a hollow voice, he gave the needed orders.

All the while, the nuclear-tipped torpedo headed toward its preset coordinates. Those were the same coordinates as the forward Chinese supply dump. Destiny awaited their meeting.

Paul was almost asleep when an immensely bright light illuminated the darkness. The bush plane’s engine roared, the only sound any of them had heard for some time.

“What is that?” shouted Pete. The small pilot began to turn around.

Paul bolted upright and shouted in the pilot’s ear. “That’s a nuke, friend.”

The intensity of the light grew, and it hurt their eyes.

Red Cloud groaned in his seat.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” said Pete.

“Ditto,” Paul said, as he gripped his seat belt.

Pete bobbed his head. “It’s bad. I wouldn’t want to be closer than we are now. But I think it’s too far to hurt my plane.”

Paul glanced back. We’re using nuclear weapons. He shook his head. Nuclear weapons in the Arctic—war couldn’t get any dirtier than this.

“Hang on!” shouted Pete. “Just in case, I want put more distance between us.” The small bush plane roared through the Arctic night, racing the bright light shining in the pack ice.

As he rubbed his aching eyes, Jian Hong settled himself before a screen. One of his bodyguards had shaken him awake and told him grim news. The Chairman was calling an emergency meeting of the Ruling Committee. The Americans had used a nuclear weapon on the pack ice. Hearing that, Jian had bolted out of bed.

Now he sipped hot tea, trying to focus his thoughts. Bai had already left for the Arctic Front to find General Nung. What if I had boarded that plane? Now I would be traveling onto a nuclear battlefield.

Jian shook his head. He would never willingly tour a battle-zone. One trained soldiers for such a task, hotheaded fools eager to become heroes.

Jian read the report for the fifth time. The Americans had launched a nuclear-tipped torpedo! They’d destroyed a forward supply depot, one meant to replenish stocks of advancing hovers and snowtanks.

His screen changed from its holding pattern. Instinctively, Jian sat up, sliding his tea out of view. He saw the members of the Ruling Committee: the Chairman was at the head of the table. On one side of him were the admiral and the Police Minister. On the other side sat Deng Fong and the Army Marshal.

I should be there. I am at a disadvantage speaking through a screen. I am like a ghost, haunting the meeting.

Jian knew that his features would be on the large computer-scroll at the other end of the table as the Chairman. Each of his gestures and features were being recorded. He’d have to remember that.

“The Americans have broken an unspoken accord between us,” the Chairman was saying.

“They have an affinity for using nuclear weapons on peoples of Asian descent,” the Police Minister said.

“Is that really true?” Deng asked.

“They once dropped two nuclear bombs on Japan,” the Police Minister said. “Now they are attacking us. Yes, it is true.”

“I don’t think you’re aware of all the facts,” Deng said. “You must understand that Japan was a uniquely dangerous opponent for the Americans. Militarily, no one has ever been able to strike such devastating blows against modern America as the Japanese. They attacked Pearl Harbor and drove the Americans out of the Philippines.”

“What is your point?” the Chairman asked.

“Sir,” Deng said, “I do not believe the nuclear attack was racially motivated as our illustrious Police Minister has implied. I think our invasion has frightened the Americans into using nuclear weapons.”

“The point is they’ve used them on Chinese soldiers,” Jian said.

No one in Beijing appeared to hear his words.

“I will not tolerate this use of nuclear weapons against us,” the Chairman said. He sat rigidly in his wheelchair, with pain creased across his features. “Do the Americans think Greater China is a secondary power? A power they can indiscriminately attack with nuclear weapons?”

“I have studied the attack,” Deng said. “I do not believe it was indiscriminate.”

“Explain that,” the Chairman said.

“They used a torpedo to explode pack-ice,” Deng said.

“That is completely immaterial,” the Chairman said.

“Respectfully, sir, why didn’t they attack our forces in the Kenai Peninsula with nuclear weapons? It would have proven much more effective there toward the defense of Alaska.”

“Your question reveals a lack of knowledge concerning the present battlefield,” Admiral Qiang said. “We have laser batteries and anti-missile rockets whose primary purpose is shooting down tactical and theater-level nuclear weapons. That is why the Americans haven’t attacked there. They cannot.”

“Have the Americans used nuclear-tipped torpedoes against our fleet?” Deng asked.

“It’s only a matter of time now before they will,” the Chairman said.

“But they haven’t,” Deng said.

“Make your point.”

Deng moved his water glass before answering. “Sir, I suggest we hesitate before retaliating with nuclear weapons.”

“I will not tolerate the use of such weapons against Chinese forces,” the Chairman said.

“It is unspeakable,” Jian said.

“Why use torpedoes?” Deng asked. “There must be a reason for that. Why haven’t they fired missiles at the cross-polar assault?”

“Excuse me, sir,” the Army Minister said. “But it would prove difficult for the Americans to hit our forces on the ice with long-range missiles. Our strategic pulse-lasers protect the higher altitudes over the pack ice. With space-mirrors, we could knock down such missiles before they reached our assembly areas.”

“I see,” Deng said. “Interesting.”

“The torpedo attack shows the Americans’ desperation,” Admiral Qiang said. “I suggest it means they have little in way of defense on the North Slope. Mr. Chairman, I suggest an immediate assault on the military bases there.”

“I appreciate your concern,” the octogenarian Army Minister said. “Yet I wonder if you desire the immediate assault in order to draw attention away from your naval brigades.”

“The ice itself is an enemy,” Qiang said. “This torpedo attack proves that. I cannot understand why you would want your polar formations on it any longer than necessary.”

“Do not worry about them,” the Chairman said, as he glanced at Jian. “The Chinese Army will soon launch its attack on the North Slope.”

“We will light a fire under General Nung,” Jian said.

“The Americans have already lit that fire under him,” Qiang said dryly.

“You seem to feel the Army is tardy in its assault,” the marshal told Qiang. “First, you must understand that crossing the pack-ice has proven harder than my planners had anticipated. It was and is a nightmare journey, with many unforeseen incidents and accidents. A few formations are almost ready for the final lunge as they gather the needed supplies. But there is a problem.”

“Yes?” Qiang asked.

“The most dangerous zone is the last four hundred kilometers,” the marshal said. “If ground units become stalled in that area, they become easy targets for the Americans. Therefore, operational theory calls for a swift and continuous advance across the last zone. In order to achieve that, forward supply depots are needed.”

“I find it interesting that the Americans chose to destroy a depot with their nuclear torpedo instead of directly destroying a military assembly area,” Qiang said.

“They likely don’t know the whereabouts of such an assembly area,” the marshal said.

“These military details are secondary,” the Chairman said, interrupting. “The point is: the Americans have used nuclear weapons against us. I refuse to let that go unpunished.”

“Are you suggesting we use nuclear weapons?” Deng asked.

“Yes,” the Chairman said.

Deng appeared uneasy. “May I ask where, sir?”

“Perhaps Fairbanks would do,” the Chairman said.

“They have strategic lasers protecting Fairbanks,” Qiang said.

“We must find a place to retaliate,” the Chairman said. “I demand it.”

“Maybe we already have such a place:” Deng said, “a non-place.”

“I do not care to hear any more of your clever suggestions tonight, Deng,” the Chairman said. “I want revenge. I want the Americans to feel my anger. It is intolerable that they think China will lie supine while they launch nuclear weapons upon us.”

Deng nodded. “You carry the soul of China in your heart, sir. You are outraged, and you feel this assault upon our honor because of your special connection with the people.”

“You guide us, sir,” Jian said, trying to keep his hand in the conversation.

“Yes,” Deng said. “You guide us. Yet I wonder if in this instance the Americans haven’t handed you a gift.”

“A gift by incinerating Chinese soldiers?” the Chairman asked dangerously.

“Never that,” Deng said.

Jian yearned to attack Deng verbally, but he feared the man’s cunning. He also feared Deng’s ideas.

“Very well,” the Chairman said. “Speak your mind. Let us hear what your cleverness can concoct from American savagery.”

“That’s my point, sir,” Deng said. “Much of the world views us as aggressors.”

“We are the aggressors,” the Chairman said. “Despite our propaganda campaign, it is never wise to lie to oneself.”

“I agree,” Deng said. “Many view us as aggressors. Now the Americans have used nuclear weapons. That will lose them support. Every torpedo they fire will create a worldwide groundswell against them. It will create an outcry against nuclear weapons. We will be able to use that later.”

“People respect strength,” the Chairman said. “If the Americans destroy the polar forces, others will fear them more. How could that possibly help us?”

“From what I’ve heard here,” Deng said, “the Americans might destroy a few more supply depots, but they will be unable to reach our military forces. We wait outside the four-hundred kilometer danger-zone. Once we’re ready, we will invade and capture the North Slope.”

“What if these attacks embolden the Americans to use nuclear weapons against our fleet in the Gulf of Alaska?” the Chairman asked.

“I think there is a message in their use of a torpedo under the ice,” Deng said.

“If they use such weapons against our fleet,” Jian said, “we should use nuclear weapons in the Kenai Peninsula.”

Every member of the Ruling Committee finally glanced at him.

“I don’t agree,” Admiral Qiang said. “We need the Kenai Peninsula intact. We would have to use nuclear weapons elsewhere.”

“I have made a resolution in my heart,” the Chairman said. “If they destroy our cross-polar formations with nuclear weapons, we shall destroy their oilfields in retaliation, crippling their economy. And I have another, more devastating way to use our nuclear weapons, one that none of their strategic lasers can stop.”

“What is that, sir?” Jian asked.

The Chairman stared at him. “It is an idea I will hold in reserve at the moment. You, however, will carry on with your assigned task.” The Chairman gave him a meaningful nod.

“Yes, sir,” Jian said.

The Chairman pressed a button on his wheelchair, and Jian’s screen went blank. If left Jian staring at his cooling tea, wondering if he should signal Bai’s plane, telling the lieutenant-general to return to Ambarchik. Should he find General Nung himself? The Chairman had given him the nod.

Jian was still wondering twenty minutes later.