Invasion: Alaska

-14- Drive on Anchorage

The Chinese supercarrier and its escorts were well out to sea. It was overcast and gray rolling waves spread in all directions.

Deep inside the mighty vessel, Admiral Ling stood before the OBS, the operational battle screen, studying the situation on the Kenai Peninsula. With his single hand, he keyed up information as the need occurred to him. As Ling ingested the data, several certainties began to become clear.

The hatch opened and Commodore Yen entered the chamber. Before approaching the admiral, Yen murmured a greeting to a keen-eyed operator.

Ling nodded as the Commodore sidled near. Then the admiral cast a suspicious glance at the operator Yen had singled out. Why would the notoriously snobbish Commodore even notice a battle-intelligence operator? Oh. Then it became clear.

“The man is an East Lightning spy?” Ling asked in a whisper.

Commodore Yen turned away from the operator, one among several in the OBS room. He moved so now his mouth was hidden from the man’s view. The tall flag officer adjusted his VR monocle as he regarded the admiral. “I thought you knew, sir,” Yen said quietly.

“No. I had no idea.”

Yen shrugged dismissively. “They are everywhere. The chief political officer aboard ship spends much of his time recruiting naval personnel to spy on their superiors.”

“I thought the men in here were all vetted.”

Yen said nothing.

Scowling, Admiral Ling returned his attention to the OBS. “We have a limited time to crack the glass vase that is Anchorage. So far, the Americans have held fast.”

“Sir,” said Yen, surprised, “even now our naval brigades are driving the Americans back. Every time the enemy dares to make a stand, our forces smash through. If I may be so bold, sir, how can you say the Americans are holding?”

“You must see through the first level of a situation before you make such pronouncements,” chided Ling.

The Commodore seemed startled. After a moment’s thought, however, the serene look returned. “You conquered Taiwan, so I would not presume to teach you the art of war, sir.”

“No, no,” said Ling. “Do not be so shy. I am old. I am maimed. What could I possibly know?”

“I would not presume to say, sir. I suspect, however, that you have a new plan to implement.”

Admiral Ling nodded as his good eye, the dark one, became like a pool of swirling ink. There were deep eddies in that eye, a depth of character and subtlety.

“We have nine naval brigades,” Ling said, “each twice the size of any American brigade. What is more, we possess superior training, morale and soldiers. We have stormed onto the peninsula and now drive through it along two routes, Highways One and Nine. Highway One began at Homer. Route Nine started at Seward.”

“Seward,” said Yen, “the Vice-Admiral’s base.”

“For now, personalities don’t matter. The critical factor is our weight of numbers: nine full brigades against several American brigades. These Militiamen bolster them, but they shouldn’t make the difference.” Ling cleared his throat. “You were mistaken a moment ago when you said we ‘smash through’ those Americans daring to make a stand. To smash through implies that we have swept away the defenders so they are now chaff.” Ling shook his head. “That is far from the case. We drive against them as they defend the twin routes. Each kilometer we force them back, is a kilometer closer for them to their base of supplies. That means the closer they approach Anchorage, the easier it will be for the Americans to reinforce their sectors. What makes it worse for us is that each highway resembles a thin artery. Along the artery must pump food, fuel and ammo to our soldiers. Each of these routes snake through a terrible wildness of ever bigger and steeper mountains and denser forests.”

“You speak the truth, sir. And yet, by driving them back we are surely winning.”

“In a first phase analysis, yes, you would be absolutely correct. To win we must reach Anchorage. Hence, as we near Anchorage, we are winning. Yet until a sector along one of the arteries collapses, we are unable to thrust at Anchorage with speed in order to take it in a single swoop. Because of the two winding routes, we have only been able to hack our way to the city like an explorer hacking a path through a jungle.”

“The Americans have much fewer soldiers than we do, sir. We will win a war of attrition, a war of hacking, as you say.”

“For now that is so, yes,” said Ling. “Yet the factors are changing. The Americans are constantly air-ferrying soldiers from the mainland, from the bottom states to the fronts. Intelligence has also informed me that a large military convoy is boring through the frozen highways of the Yukon.”

“We’ve interrupted most direct air-ferrying into Anchorage,” said Yen. “We’ve slowed them.”

“As you’ve just said, we’ve slowed them. Yet the Americans still dare at times to rush transports into Anchorage airport. Mostly, they fly to outer bases and put the reinforcements onto trains to Anchorage and thereby to the Kenai Peninsula. I would like to throttle all air transport into the city and force the Americans to land their reinforcements and supplies all the way up at Fairbanks.”

“That would help immensely.”

Ling nodded. “It would change the mathematical equation in our favor, I agree.”

“Which is what?” asked Yen.

“There are several factors at work, you understand.”

“…I’m not sure I do, sir, at least not how you see it.”

Ling gave the Commodore a crooked grin, the only kind he could give since half his face was paralyzed. “Because of the thin arteries—the Number One and Nine Highways—massive traffic jams often bottleneck our supplies. That also makes it difficult to bring up fresh brigades or battalions to the point of battle. At the point of battle, we hack the Americans in attritional fights. Unfortunately, that costs us in Chinese blood and munitions. Yes, we have superior soldiers. But the Americans fight for their homes and are on defense, which is the stronger form of warfare as they can fire from behind boulders and trees, and pop up from foxholes.”

“I still don’t understand your reason for pessimism, sir. We keep pushing them back.”

“Yes! As they trade space for time. Given enough time, they can reinforce their lost soldiers—as long as they maintain the open air corridor.”

“By the look on your face, sir, I believe you have the answer to our dilemma.”

“I have several answers,” said Ling. “They are each risky.”

“How can they entail risk as long as we have better soldiers and hardware?”

Admiral Ling reached up and pointed at a red symbol on the OBS. It was much deeper inland than any of their penetrations. It was, in fact, hundreds of kilometers inland.

“You’re pointing to their nearest ABM laser station?” asked Yen.

“Strategic ABM laser station,” said Ling. “The Americans haven’t used it yet to attack our aircraft, primarily because we’ve given them little opportunity to do so.”

Yen studied him. “Are you suggesting sending our bombers into the protected airspace? It would cost us heavily, I’m afraid. If we lost too many planes, it might jeopardize the safety of our carriers. Can you really risk that, sir?”

“We must risk it if we hope to cordon off Anchorage from air-supply. Once that is accomplished, we can smash anything crawling along the ground trying to reach the city. That will dry up their ability to strengthen their defensive positions along Highway One and Nine. As I said before, it is a mathematical formula. If they can trade these controlled increments of space for time long enough, then their main reinforcements from British Columbia will reach Anchorage before we do. If they can, they will seal us off in the peninsula. My accelerated push will demand better traffic control on the twin routes. We must switch the brigades facing the Americans, allowing each combat group the chance to hammer the retreating Americans in turn. That will give our blooded brigades time to rest and regroup. By all means, we must find more ways to bring our superior numbers to bear against the dwindling Americans.”

“We will, sir, especially once we reach Anchorage and then break out.”

“This ABM laser station,” said Ling, pointing at it on the OBS. “We must first destroy it.”

“With long-range missiles?” asked Yen.

“No, that’s out of the question. Even cruise missiles would fail as the site burns them out of the air with their pulse-lasers. For this attack, we must use our Ghost-bombers, our newest stealth craft.”

“Ah, yes, I see why you said risky earlier. Forgive me for my presumption, but I’m guessing you mean to use all of them.”

“Yes, of course all. It is a deep raid. If the Americans are awake and have been holding fighter reserves for just this eventuality….”

Commodore Yen nodded sagely.

“I know the political risks,” Ling said. “The rewards beckon me, however. If we destroy the strategic ABM station, it will open up all South Central Alaska’s hinterlands to our fighters.”

“I don’t disagree, sir.”

“But?” asked Ling.

“It still leaves the Americans an air strongpoint in Anchorage. The base facilities there are powerful.”

“Absolutely true. That is why I will use a second surprise.”

“What is that, sir?”

Admiral Ling told the Commodore his plan.

As he heard the words, the Commodore’s monocle fell from his eye. The Commodore caught the expensive VR monocle before it could break on the floor, and he nodded. “You are bold, sir. Your plan truly is risky, but it is also brilliant.”

Because of badly iced wings, Lieutenant-General Bai’s transport plane went down. He had traveled a long ways from Ambarchik Base in East Siberia. Now his transport hit the pack ice. He snapped forward, hitting his forehead against the padded seat in front of him. He heard the explosive sound of crackling ice and the tortured sound of twisted metal.

I must escape from the plane before it sinks into the freezing water.

Men shouted all around him. Bai was dazed and kept trying to remove his restraints. Then soldiers cut his restraints and hauled him upright. The men were cruelly strong, hurting him.

“Hurry, sir!” a man shouted in his face.

Bai stumbled down the crazily tilted aisle. Ice groaned outside and the entire plane shifted.

Men shouted, and a dazed and head-bleeding Bai found himself shoved through a door. He crashed onto ice. His legs crumpled under him. One of his ankles flared with red-hot pain. Someone hauled him upright. He had to hop on one foot.

“Move!” roared a sergeant.

Bai looked up as hail beat at his face. They’d tried to fly through this blizzard. Yes, yes, he was on his way to speak with General Nung. The deadly Ruling Committee Minister—Jian Hong—had taken over Ambarchik Base. Bai tried to clear his foggy thoughts. Men pitched supplies out of the plane.

“This way, sir!” a man shouted in his ear, making Bai yelp. He dragged Bai. As the soldier did, the world began to tremble and thunder roared.

It’s the ice. It’s cracking under my feet. I’m going to die.

Two men grabbed Bai and ran. Each step on his bad ankle caused shooting pain.

They barely beat the cracking ice. The plane groaned and shrieked metallically as it slid underwater and out of sight with a tremendous splash. A spray of freezing droplets of seawater wet the back of his head. He hadn’t donned a hood or hat yet, having spent hours inside the plane.

Bai lay gasping, tasting his own blood as it trickled down his forehead.

“Wrap this around him and set up the distress signal,” a man said.

“What?” Bai muttered. Then a scarf was wound around his throbbing head. Who would come to get them? They were lost in the middle of the Arctic Ocean and were supposed to keep radio silence. He had a message to bring General Nung, a message to attack the Americans. Bai cursed this wretched blizzard, this logistics nightmare that was the cross-polar attack.

One hundred and twelve miles north of Anchorage was the small town of Talkeetna. It was at the end of the spur road near Mile 99 of the Parks Highway. Talkeetna was small and unpaved, with a Wild West flavor. Denali National Park loomed over the town. In 1917, it had opened as Mount McKinley National Park. In 1980, it had been renamed according to Native traditions. In any case, Denali was more than six million acres of wilderness and was the heart of Alaska with the biggest mountain and the wildest rivers.

There was a U.S. Air Force dirt road in Denali National Park connected to the small town. At the end of the road was a massive complex of building. In them were several nuclear plants to power one of the nation’s strategic Anti-Ballistic Missile pulse-lasers. Nearby was another base with old Patriot missiles and F-35 fighters.

The Talkeetna ABM laser, as it was known, helped protect Anchorage from direct Chinese air assaults. There were two mobile laser batteries protecting Anchorage airport, but they were small, tactical weapons as compared to the giant pulse-laser near Talkeetna.

Two nights had passed since Admiral Ling’s discussion with Commodore Yen. A special attack group had assembled on the Chinese carriers. The carriers had steamed over four hundred kilometers nearer before the catapults began lofting the bombers, EW craft and fighters.

“Tonight,” said Ling, “we open up the war. By doing so, we will tighten the screws on the Americans.”

Fifteen Ghosts skimmed across the waves as they sped to the west of the Kenai Peninsula. They were the latest in ultra-stealth technology, saucer-shaped craft that seemed to have more in common with people’s perceptions of UFOs than bombers. Anti-radar paint, special radar resistant alloys and computer-constructed angles and shapes hid the sub-sonic bombers from American radar, as well as their passive and thermal sensors. For all their sophistication, however, the Ghost S-13s had several critical vulnerabilities. They were slow, poorly armored and needed ultra-advanced AIs to help fly an otherwise un-flyable craft. That in turn meant they were expensive, terribly so.

“You—” Commodore Yen broke off and cleared his throat.

“Yes?” Ling asked. They were in the OBS tonight as they awaited word of the strike’s success or failure.

“It was nothing, sir,” said Yen. “Please, forget I spoke.”

“My friend, do not hold back your views now.”

Commodore Yen seemed to choose his words with care. “We must hope that none of the S-13s crash tonight, lest the Americans gain our secret technology.”

Ling smiled crookedly. “You mean, I’d better not lose any or the Chairman will have my head.”

“I never said that, sir.”

“No,” said Ling. “You didn’t.” The one-armed admiral returned to watching the OBS.

As part of the overall attack, Chinese Mongoose fighters waited over Lake Clark National Park, which was well west of Cook Inlet. The Mongooses were almost two hundred kilometers to the south of the Ghosts. EW Anchors cloaked the Mongooses’ presence. The electronic warfare craft circled with the fighters as they watched and waited with everyone else.

The fifteen Ghosts moved in a similar pattern as nap-of-the-earth attack helicopters. They flew along the edge of the Alaska Range, heading deeper inland.

One of the electronic warfare Anchors sent a signal to the Sung supercarrier.

“The Americans are asleep,” said Yen, as he studied the message.

“Maybe,” was all Admiral Ling said.

Time ticked away as darkness concealed the fifteen Ghosts. Strategic ABM sensors were the best. If anything could crack the hidden bombers….

One of the Ghosts wobbled. It was a sign. His instruments must have picked up something. Yes, American radar had grown in strength. The enemy must know something was happening.

“Sir,” said Yen, far back in the Sung. “You must send in the fighters to protect our Ghosts.”

“And lose them all to the ABM laser?” asked Ling. “No, I am not so inclined.”

“But look there, sir,” Yen said, pointing at the OBS. “The Americans are lofting F-22 Raptors.”

“I know what those are. No. We must crack the air-defense net behind Anchorage by taking out their strongest point. We must risk the Ghosts.”

“Need I remind you, sir—”

“You will watch in silence,” said Ling. “That is an order.”

The Commodore hesitated before nodding stiffly.

Meanwhile, the fifteen stealthy bombers neared the giant ABM complex. Above, in high combat air patrol, was a squadron of F-22s.

The lead Ghost pilot, Captain Peng, checked the stats on his missile. He had one, a bore worm. A remote control operator in China would guide the bore worm into the ABM station and explode it where it would do the most damage. Fifteen bore worms should more than do it.

Can all fifteen of us get in? Captain Peng twisted sharply. On his tac-board, the F-22s were hunting. More precisely an AWACS farther behind was hunting for them. If all the Ghosts could get in firing range, could all of them get back out again?

The targeting sequence started. Captain Peng inched his plane a little higher. Outside, pines whipped past his aircraft. “Now!” he said, pulling the release switch. There was a jolt as the bore worm dropped. A microsecond passed, then afterburners ignited in the missile, and it whooshed off into the night.

If everything had gone right, Captain Peng knew that their missiles had leaped into existence on American radar and thermal sensors, badly surprising the enemy. He banked, lifted to miss pines, and quickly sank again to inches over the canopy. Other bore worms now launched at the strategic ABM station.

“Luck,” said Captain Peng as he started the painful journey home to the carriers.

Fourteen bore worm missiles launched at the ABM station. The fifteenth malfunctioned and tumbled into Denali National Park.

American anti-missile cannons began firing almost right away. Half the F-22s roared down from CAP, trying to intercept the missiles.

In China, remote controllers worked feverishly. A bore worm went down. A remote controller groaned as simulated death-shocks ran through his convulsing body. Another missile exploded in the darkness, raining molten parts onto the trees and beginning a fire. All the time, the rest of the missiles homed in on the defensive complex with its blazing cannons. Another bore worm died. The Americans were good, better than the Chinese thought they would have been.

Then bore worm missiles reached the Talkeetna ABM complex. The first of seven successful missiles burrowed through the concrete and earthen shields of the plant. They bored—and exploded, knocking out each of the nuclear power-plants and wrecking the focusing mirrors.

The strategic ABM station was badly damaged by the attack. And the wrecked nuclear plants lethally radiated the American base personnel that escaped the initial fireball. The pulse-laser shield of the American air-defense for South Central Alaska was gone.

The nearest F-22s went after the slow-moving Ghosts. The Americans knew where they were now, and they were out for blood. Before the J-25 Mongooses arrived, the F-22s shot down eight of the stealth bombers. Then, by direct order of C-in-C Sims, the American fighters turned away from the approaching J-25s. Seeing that the pulse-laser was nothing more than a pile of radioactive rubble, they would need every fighter used in the wisest manner possible if they were going to save Anchorage.

In his torn and dirty parka, Stan Higgins lay on a hill among pine trees. From his hiding spot, he tried to analyze the enemy’s intentions. The Chinese were on lower ground and camped on both sides of the highway.

Stan shivered from cold and lack of sleep. From several miles away, Chinese artillery had bombarded them on and off again all night. His last precious M1A2 tanks—all four of them—were dug in a quarter mile back. Militiamen had chopped down pines. Using the pines and lots of earth, they had constructed low canopies for the tanks, making bunkers. Those bunkers would probably stop anything except for what they needed to—the T-66s.

Thinking about the hardworking Militia building the heavy log roofs, Stan wondered what had happened to Bill Harris, his best friend and pastor of the Rock Church. The last time Stan had seen Bill, the pastor had heaved a sticky mine at a T-66’s tracks.

Shaking his head, Stan tried not to think about Bill. That was many hard battles ago. He’d seen hundreds of Americans die since then, and just as many Chinese. Every fight was different yet they all ran to a pattern. He shelled the Chinese as they advanced and then he drove away, stopped, fired, and kept driving to the next fortified line. After every battle, new trickles of warm bodies and massive loads of munitions restocked them for the next fight.

As he lay on his stomach, the night turned into a gloomy day. Stan tried to pierce the snowflakes gently falling from the sky. In normal times, this would be too early for snow. But with the new glacial period—

Stan stiffened.

“Something wrong, Professor?” Jose asked.

Stan nodded, seeing something he didn’t like.

The Chinese had been pressing even harder lately. Last night, however, there had been a pause in the fighting, a longer one than usual. The snow might have something to do with that.

Adjusting the binoculars, Stan looked closer at Chinese soldiers with snow-shovels. They cleared the main road, Highway One. Craning his neck, squinting at them, Stan tried to make out their insignia… ah, it showed a leopard on the patch and said 125th. That’s what troubled him: a new group of Chinese had moved up. That was always a signal for another hard push.

From the woods, a muffled shot rang out. Several shots followed. One of the Chinese shoveling snow pitched over. The others ran back into the sheltering snowfall. The moment of idyllic grace was over. American sharpshooters crawled in the woods, sniping Chinese whenever they got the chance. The Chinese reacted to sniper fire with predictable heavy-handedness.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Stan, as he slid down their side of the hill. “The Chinese artillery will probably open up any second now. Go!”

Jose and Stan floundered through the snow as they ran downhill. They raced out of the no-man’s-land between the two lines and back for their side. Sure enough, about halfway there, Chinese mortar-fire began peppering the woods. Stan ran harder and his heart pounded—from this point on their lines were upslope on higher ground. Behind him, he heard crackling branches and loud thumps.

“Well?” shouted a panting Jose. “Was crawling to the Chinese to gain a forward look worth it?”

“Ask me… in a few,” panted Stan. Steam poured from his mouth.

Soon, they reached their line and jumped into a trench. U.S. Army soldiers looked up. One sergeant cursed, as Stan had kicked over his coffee pot.

“Sorry,” said Stan.

“Thanks, sir,” the sergeant said, picking up the pot and setting it back on his tiny stove.

Stan looked over his shoulder, listening for anything unusual. Now that he’d made it back to their line, the enemy mortar-fire had quit. Murphy’s Laws made themselves felt all the time at the front. Stan took several minutes to catch his breath. Then he headed down the trench for the commander’s hut.

“What are you going to report?” asked Jose, who followed him.

“That I’ve spotted a new battalion or a new brigade. That’s probably why they didn’t attack last night. They must have traded places with the Chinese forces that were attacking us before.”

“And now it’s going to be the big push?”

“They’ve all been big pushes.”

“You know what I mean,” said Jose. “Everyone keeps talking about the big one. It’s in the Chinese interest to obliterate us so they can drive the rest of the way to Anchorage in peace.”

“Well,” said Stan, “you can read a map as good as I can. We’re guarding the Junction, right?”

Jose nodded.

“If we lose the Junction, it means everyone holding Highway Nine has to retreat. Otherwise, the enemy can move down Highway Nine and crush our forces from behind. From what I hear, what’s left of the 1st Stryker Brigade is getting jumpy. Their commander doesn’t think we can hold.”

“You know him don’t you?”

“Hector Ramos?” asked Stan. “I sure do. He’s among the best we have.” He frowned then and turned to Jose. “If I were the Chinese commander, I’d have unleashed the big push yesterday.”

“Good thing we had this snow then.”

“It slows them down,” admitted Stan. “It also looks like they used the time to reorganize, just like we used it to rest and get another trickle of reinforcements in place.”

“You hear about the new Abrams coming?”

Stan nodded. “It will be good to have other tanks in the sector with us. I’m hoping to talk with their commander and tell him what we’ve learned.”

“Good idea,” said Jose. “Look. There’s the colonel.”

“I’ll be back in a few,” said Stan, hurrying after the CO who had ducked into his command hut.

The snow fell heavier the rest of the morning. Each flake was big and wet, and together they clogged every road and path. Stan along with others heard rumors about a big air attack that had occurred somewhere deep in Alaska, but neither he nor anyone else knew what it had been about.

Around two in the afternoon, as the snow began to lessen, twenty M1A3 Abrams tanks rolled into the rear area of their sector. Soldiers whooped with delight upon seeing them.

“The cavalry has arrived,” a tanned Major Fred Benson told the colonel in Stan’s presence.

The colonel had his data-net team here and spoke to Major Benson, Stan, and the other officers, explaining the situation. Benson spoke up more and more often, offering suggestions. He and his tanks had flown in from California, landing in Fairbanks, then taking the train to Anchorage and motoring the rest of the way down Highway One.

After listening to one too many of Benson’s suggestions, the colonel turned to the Californian major. “I’m not sure you have a full grasp of the situation yet.”

“Of course I do,” said Benson. “The Chinese have been giving you boys a hard time. Well, that’s ‘cause they have tanks and you didn’t.”

“We have Abrams tanks,” the colonel said. “His.” He pointed at Stan.

Benson’s tanned features were skeptical. “Begging your pardon, Colonel, but he’s National Guard.”

“Do you have something against them?”

“Not a thing,” said Benson. “But we’re trained tankers and have the latest modifications. We also have the newest Army ordnance. We’ll blow these big Chinese tanks out of the way for you.”

“They have 175mm guns,” said Stan.

“I’ve read the specs,” Benson said. “They don’t impress me much.”

“A hit from them will take out an Abrams,” said Stan.

“The trick is tactical maneuver,” Benson said. “Those Chinese monsters are slow. My babies are quick and we don’t plan to wait for them to attack us.”

“The T-66s are fast on the road,” Stan told him. “They have retractable wheels.”

Benson waved his hand. “I’m talking about off-road movement. My Abrams will run rings around them, if it comes to that. I have the newest long-range rounds. So—ka-boom,” said Benson. “No more T-66s.”

Stan began shaking his head.

“Do you even know anything about the new Sabot rounds?” asked Benson.

Stan rattled off their statistics, which caused Benson to raise his eyebrows.

“We call him the Professor,” the colonel said. “There’s a reason for that. If you want to know anything military, you ask him.”

Stan reddened at the compliment.

“I’ll stick to the latest tanker tactics,” Benson said.

“This isn’t the Mojave Testing Ground,” the colonel said. “This is Alaska, and the Chinese are good.”

“The Chinese have never been good with armor.” Major Benson grinned confidently. “Gentlemen, I can see the Chinese have you rattled. And I don’t blame you. But that’s going to change now, let me tell you. The cavalry has arrived and we’ll blow those mother-lovers away for you. I only ask one thing.”

“What is that?” the colonel asked dryly.

“A long field of fire and some maneuvering room,” Benson said.

“That’s two things,” the colonel said. “But never mind. Can you help him arrange that, Professor?”

“Yes, sir,” said Stan.

The colonel glanced around at them. He nodded crisply. “I suspect the Chinese are going to open up soon. So let’s get ready to greet them. I dearly hope you know your trade, Major Benson. The fate of Alaska might well depend upon it.”

“Sir?” asked Benson.

“We have to keep the Junction open long enough for the 1st Stryker Brigade and their Militiamen to leapfrog back with us. We can’t afford to lose them. So we hold here until further orders.”

“Hold?” Benson said. “I plan to attack.”

“You’ll do what I order you to do,” the colonel said with heat.

Major Benson nodded, but his smirk said he had his own plans.

C-in-C Sims was worried because the Chinese had taken out the strategic Talkeetna ABM station. The giant pulse-laser had been the backbone of air defense in South Central Alaska. Now the Chinese could hunt inland, possibly hitting the train line from Fairbanks or even attempting to interdict the transport flights landing in that city.

Sims had rearranged SAM sites, moved tactical laser batteries and lofted more air, particularly early warning radar planes and fighters. His pilots were overworked, but they were tough and knew the stakes.

So far, Sims had kept the Chinese ground forces away from Anchorage. It had cost too many American lives doing it, however. As fast as the reinforcements arrived, he sent them against the Chinese in the Kenai Peninsula. If the Chinese could interrupt his small but steady trickle of reinforcements—

“Where are they going to hit next?” Sims asked his Air Chief.

“If I were them,” the Air Chief replied, “I’d put the rail-line out of commission.”

Sims studied the situation on an operational map as he sat in headquarters in Anchorage. The strike against the Talkeetna ABM station hurt. It gave the Chinese greater freedom. How would they use that?

“We need more laser batteries,” Sims told the Air Chief.

“We need more of everything,” the man replied.

It was over thirty-seven hours since the destruction of the strategic ABM laser site in Talkeetna. Now Admiral Ling’s second risky attack was about to commence. The first had worked beautifully, even if he’d lost more Ghosts than he would have liked. Victory in Alaska would absolve him of any problems concerning that.

Admiral Ling stood on the bridge of the supercarrier Sung. He watched as the steam catapults launched bombers into the gray sky. Once aloft, the heavy planes climbed toward waiting fighters and EW craft.

Ling had worked himself to exhaustion these past days. He attempted to ensure coordination between the various arms and fronts. He had ensured coordination on the carriers for this new air-team venture. If his plan worked, he would shatter the Americans.

“That’s the last of the bombers,” Commodore Yen said beside him.

Admiral Ling gave him a rare smile. “Order the helicopters into the air. It is time.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Yen said.

Fifty big Heron bombers climbed to launching height. The supercarriers were already one hundred and fifty kilometers to the east behind them. Ahead of them waited Anchor EW craft and J-25 Mongoose fighters.

Captain Cho piloted the lead Heron. He had run many bombing missions already, but this one was special. Anchorage airport was the target. If everything went well, it would be the beginning of the end for the Americans.

“Launch,” came the order from a controller aboard the Sung.

Captain Cho’s palms were moist. He glanced at his navigator, gave him a grin and then yanked a lever.

At the bottom of the large bomber, a big Goshawk drone dropped from the pylons. It fell fifty meters before the turbojets kicked on. From other Herons dropped more Goshawks.

Slowly, the bombers dropped behind as the Goshawks climbed higher. Each was remote-controlled from Mukden or from one of the supercarriers. In a deadly flock, the Goshawks increased speed as they headed for Anchorage airport.

In time, the Goshawk drones passed the EW Anchors.

The Anchor pilots were nervous. They had practiced this four times during the naval “exercise.” It should work now against the Americans. They climbed to the same height as the Goshawks, but kept eighty kilometers behind.

Now they turned on powerful jamming equipment. It would take time and electronic effort for the Americans to pierce that. And once they did—

The Anchor crews were busy, but not as much as the flight controllers aboard the Sung were. There were other, smaller bombers following and the many fighters to protect the last wave—the infantry-carrying helicopters.

If anything went wrong, this could prove the costliest error in the war so far.

Even though it was overcast above Anchorage, the international airport was busy as always. There were two laser batteries stationed nearby, along with AA guns and Wyvern SAMs. A garrison platoon manned machine guns and Army MPs drove around in jeeps and patrolled the perimeters on the unlikely chance of saboteurs.

Between the airport and Anchorage was C-in-C Sims’s command post. It was underground and linked to the airport’s radar net.

“Sir,” the Air Chief said. “You should look at this.”

“What now?” Sims asked.

The Air Chief pointed at a large screen. There were an easy thirty enemy blips on it, moving toward Anchorage.

“What—?” even as Sims began to ask his question, the computer screen went white.

“Someone is jamming us, sir,” a nearby operator said.

“I’m getting nine fixes, sir. Nine jamming aircraft.”

“Are the Chinese attacking us directly?” Sims asked.

The Air Chief nodded.

“Put everything in the air,” Sims said.

“I’m already on it.”

“And break that jamming!” Sims shouted.

“That will take some time, sir,” an operator said.

“We may not have time,” Sims said.

The Goshawks flew toward the airport as their transponders gave off precise signals, making them appear as regular Chinese bombers. Their jamming equipment would help confuse American radar.

Behind the Goshawks by forty kilometers followed the Herons, with precision air-to-ground missiles primed.

A wave of F-22s moved to intercept the enemy. They launched air-to-air missiles, and in less than twenty seconds, sixty of the missiles raced toward the Goshawks. Raptor radar burned through enemy jamming, guiding their missiles to target. Soon, the missiles slammed into, exploded and killed thirty-seven Goshawks.

The remaining Goshawks bored toward the airport and into range of the tactical lasers. They beamed, and Goshawks began to fall apart.

Now the Heron bombers moved into position. Captain Cho nodded, and the bombardier released precision-guided air-to-ground missiles. All around them, the other bombers did likewise.

Now one hundred Chinese missiles burned for their targets: airport radar stations, laser sites and SAM installations.

“Glory to China,” Captain Cho said, as he increased speed. He would follow the missiles, and make a single bombing run.

Sims stared at a video-feed of a laser destroying a Goshawk. “What is that?”

“A drone,” the Air Chief said.

Sims squinted at the screen. Then he turned to the Air Chief. “They’re trying to saturate us.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Let them rip themselves apart on our sword,” the Air Chief said. “Put everything aloft.”

“Yes, sir,” said an operator.

“They’re trying to do to us what they did at Talkeetna,” Sims said.

The F-22s had launched almost all of their air-to-air missiles. They still had their cannons, however. They used afterburners to close the gap with the enemy. Behind the Raptors followed several squadrons of F-35s.

Now the more numerous Chinese Mongooses showed up, and air-to-air missiles streaked through the sky at the American planes.

Before contact occurred, the airport’s laser batteries lit the skies with stabbing beams. U.S. Wyvern missiles roared from their launching pads. AA guns poured tracer fire into the air. It was a maelstrom.

Chinese fighters went down. F-22s blew apart. Then Chinese missiles began to arrive at the airport, and explosions occurred. The missiles knocked out radar stations, SAM sites and a laser focusing system.

The surviving laser began to overheat as bombers appeared in the sky. The last Wyverns launched as the Herons unloaded their smart bombs.

Few of the Chinese Herons left the vicinity of Anchorage airport, as the F-35s now attacked.

It was a costly battle on both sides. The Chinese had more planes. The Americans had ground-based weaponry helping them. As the Chinese knocked out those systems, though, they finally gained air superiority over the airport.

“Sir,” a radar operator asked Sims. “What are those do you think?” He pointed at his screen, at the blizzard of blips that seemed to rise from the ground.

“I don’t care what they are,” said Sims. “Kill them!”

“Can’t do it at the moment, sir,” the operator said. “The last laser is re-juicing.”

Sims had a cold feeling in his chest.

“What are they, sir?”

“I wish I knew,” said Sims.

The last wave of the Chinese attack approached Anchorage airport. They were heavy Chinese choppers. During the intense air-battle, the helicopters had sped over the waves of Cook Inlet. Now they streaked for Anchorage airport. As the heavy choppers neared, remaining flak guns opened up in the city. The first chopper exploded in a hail of gunfire.

Now bay doors rolled open on the Chinese craft. One after another, men leaped out of the bays. They wore dinylon body-armor and Eagle-7 jetpacks. The elite Eagle Teams engaged their rugged battlefield thrusters. Kept airborne and mobile, each soldier used a joystick-control to guide him. They had assault rifles, grenades and RPGs, although none of them used their weapons yet. They were too busy flying their jetpacks.

The flak guns continued to pound the choppers, and the big machines kept dropping out of the sky, most minus their jetpack cargos. Now the Eagle Teams swooped for the cratered airport. It was a sight, men dangling in their jetpacks.

Lieutenant Chiang led his squad. He watched the ground rush up toward him as the wind whistled past his helmeted head. He had thick wrists and a steady hand. Behind him on his back, the jet whined. His bones shook, but he loved this. Checking his gauge, he saw that he had another fifteen minutes of fuel.

He approached a flat-looking building. Americans ran outside. They held assault guns. Some of the Americans knelt, raised their weapons and began firing. Chiang clenched his teeth as he concentrated on flight.

A bullet whanged off his dinylon armor. Chiang shouted as he veered to the side. He almost lost his balance, and that would have sent him plummeting to his death. Around him, Chinese jetpack-soldiers indeed fell to the ground. Fortunately, his pack’s internal gyro stabilized him. Chiang knew he had to touch down fast. He used his joystick, and he felt a sudden lurch as the ground rushed up.

Then several Chinese attack helicopters swooped in with the Eagle Teams. The 25mm chainguns cut down the Americans firing up at Chiang.

I’m saved. It was a wonderful feeling.

With another deft use of his joystick, Lieutenant Chiang’s feet touched down. He shut off the jetpack and unsnapped his harness. With a clang, the assembly fell from his shoulders.

Chiang was barely in time. More Americans ran out of the building. Throwing himself prone on the tarmac, Chiang brought his assault rifle to bear and began firing, cutting down the first American.

Then other Eagle Team members touched down and shed their packs. Chinese soldiers began shouting to one another.

They were on the verge of capturing the airport. Lieutenant Chiang knew if they could keep the airport for any length of time, the admiral could begin air-ferrying naval soldiers into this critical rear position of the Alaskan defense. Admiral Ling would have taken the city and stranded the Americans on the Kenai Peninsula.

“Recall all of them!” Sims shouted. He’d stripped Anchorage of defenders earlier, sending them to the front to try to stem the Chinese push.

“Sir, what about the highway strongpoints?”

“If we lose Anchorage, none of that matters. Recall the Army Rangers in their helicopters and land them as close as you can to the airport. We have to get it back, now! We have to drive the Chinese out of there or the game is over!”

Lieutenant Chiang led the assault against the last Americans in the airport. The Eagle Team commander radioed him afterward, telling Chiang the Americans wouldn’t give them much time. They had to set up fast and hold until the Chinese naval infantry got here.

News of the jetpack attack on the Anchorage airport swept through the defenders waiting along Highway One.

“Are we cut off back here?” men asked.

It was four hours of questions, of growing panic, before the Chinese bombardment at the front sent soldiers cowering to their foxholes and trenches. Stan Higgins awaited the attack in his Abrams.

They had the high slope here, a long upward area with big boulders and rocks strewn everywhere. There were pines in places, but more stumps. Chainsaws had been buzzing for endless hours—days. Now the slope was a giant boulder-earthen-pine strongpoint, protecting the highway that wound through the American position.

“I still don’t understand,” whispered Jose. “If the Chinese hold Anchorage airport—”

“How many times must I tell you?” Stan asked. “They struck at the airport, but I doubt they’ll be able to keep it long.”

“Why not?” asked Jose.

“Because we can’t afford to lose it and certainly not Anchorage,” said Stan. “It’s the key to Alaska. General Sims will use everything we have to dislodge the Chinese from the airport.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“So far, we’ve been lucky.”

“How do you figure that, Professor?”

“The Chinese haven’t attacked us here yet. If I were them, I’d hit us hard right now while the men are shaky.”

“What do you think this bombardment is?”

Stan peered through his scope. He was worried about the jetpack strike like everyone else. His reading of history also let him understand something: the psychology of the attack. Men liked being brave. Soldiers honored courage. If a man faced the enemy with his friends, he could usually hold his spot. That had been particularly true of ancient combat. What men and soldiers hated, however, was having somebody at his back. The reason was obvious. An enemy at your back could hit you freely. Therefore, in ancient times particularly, if enemy troops managed to get behind an enemy formation, the soldiers in the formation often ran away. Once they broke formation, they lost the battle. Having the Chinese in their back lines frightened the men up here. It was a mental thing, a spiritual thing, yet it was very real for all that.

“I don’t hear anything,” said Jose.

“The bombardment has stopped,” said Stan, as he peered through his scope.

“I hope so.”

I don’t, Stan told himself. It meant the main attack was coming. Moreover, if Jose and Hank were any indicator, the American side was shaken by the news of the Anchorage airport assault. It might not be so easy holding today with panicked soldiers.

“Oh no,” whispered Jose.

Stan stood, opening the commander’s hatch. He thrust up, but not too high, lest he hit his head on the heavy log roof over the Abrams. He heard the familiar rattle-squeal-clank of Abrams tanks. To Stan’s amazement, Benson’s M1A3s moved out of their bombardment position. The tanks went to take their spots around the highway, giving them a good field of fire. It was crazy, but under the circumstances, it was heroic.

“Ignorance is bliss,” Stan whispered.

He glanced around at soldiers in their foxholes who had popped up to look. They stared wide-eyed at Benson’s massed Abrams. Then soldiers began to cheer.

“Well, would you look at that,” said Stan.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Jose asked.

Taking out his binoculars, Stan peered down the long slope. Those were Marauders, and they were charging at high speed.

“Why aren’t they using smoke to shield them?” Jose shouted out of the tank.

Stan had no idea, unless maybe the Chinese troops had heard about what their jetpack brothers had done. Maybe even as it panicked the American side, it had bolstered the Chinese. Maybe the Chinese figured they were simply going to overrun the Americans today.

American 120mm guns traversed, and Benson’s Abrams opened up, sending their long-distance Sabot rounds shrieking at the enemy.

“Hit!” shouted Stan. “They’re hitting Marauders.” Stan found himself grinning. He didn’t care anymore if Benson was one arrogant prick of a tanker. If the man could shoot Chinese like fish in a barrel, that was just fine with him. “Mighty fine,” Stan said with a laugh.

From the trenches and foxholes, U.S. Army soldiers, National Guardsmen and Militiamen cheered wildly.

Then the Marauders began firing. A shell slammed into an Abrams. The tank blew up. Another Chinese shell bounced off an American tank, just as the American tanks fired again. It was a glorious sight, and it poured massed fire down at the Chinese. It also destroyed the Marauders.

“You’d better button up,” said Jose. “After that, the Chinese will likely start another bombardment.”

Stan thought likewise. Then he froze. He focused his binoculars on three T-66s. Dropping the binoculars, he picked up his receiver and shouted to Benson’s Abrams, “Get behind something, a boulder, dirt—hide!” he shouted to Benson’s tankers.

Instead of doing anything so sensible, the M1A3 Abrams revved up and began to move down the long slope toward the giant Chinese tanks.

To Stan, it seemed as if a hush descended on the battlefield. Soldiers waited. They watched. Stan couldn’t believe that Benson was really that arrogant. How could the major dare charge the tri-turreted tanks?

American tanks skidded to a halt, and their cannons boomed. Shells roared down-slope and smashed against the first T-66. Smoke billowed around the monster.

“He’s going to learn now,” said Jose.

The Abrams revved and moved as Chinese shells screamed at them. An American tank blew up. Then the smoke cleared from the first T-66. Stan expected to see an unhurt monster. Instead, incredibly, the Chinese tank lay on its side, destroyed.

“What the heck?” Stan whispered.

Another volley roared from American cannons, and another T-66 blew apart under a hammering hail of massed fire.

“He’s killed two T-66s,” Jose said in awe.

The third Chinese monster fired its three guns. WHAM! WHAM! Two of Benson’s Abrams flew apart, one in a ball of fire. The remaining tanks fired back, and the third T-66 was destroyed.

“He did it,” Stan said.

“And he’s advancing on them!” Jose shouted. “He’s attacking the enemy.” Jose whirled around in his seat. “We have to help him. Let’s hit them now, Professor. Let’s drive these Chinese out of Alaska.”

It took Stan a moment. Then he gave the order, deciding they had to attack while they had the chance.

At that moment, Chinese helicopters rose into sight. There were a mass of them. They launched ATGMs at Benson’s tanks.

The massed M1A3s put up a hail of machine gun fire. From behind the trenches, American SAMs launched. Missiles, 25mm chaingun-fire and lead filled the air. Helicopters exploded, as did big Abrams tanks. Black smoke poured from other helicopters as they veered away. Abrams tanks raced in various directions. They used the terrain to try to duck out of sight of the remaining helicopters. It was confusion for a time, chaos. Once the last helicopter left the battlefield, more T-66s appeared. There were six this time, double the number as previously.

Benson’s Abrams no longer fired in union, and now the big Chinese guns boomed. It was a bloodbath as the two sides continued to hammer at each other.

Brigadier General Hector Ramos leaned his elbows on the outer hatch of his nineteen-ton Stryker. Behind him on Highway Nine were the remnants of the 1st Stryker Brigade and his Militiamen. All his combat vehicles, including the Humvees, had scorch marks or holes. Ammo was low. Soldiers were exhausted. Before him at the Junction were the sounds of battle and the grim silhouettes of one hundred ton tanks. Behind him on Highway Nine came the Chinese.

“What do we do, sir?” asked Major Philips. “We’re caught between two forces.”

Ramos stared at the Junction. He’d heard Philips by radio. The fight was almost over at the crossing. The National Guard and Army grunts…it was amazing they’d held out so long. A small trench line had been dug nine miles away on Highway One. It was supposed to be the new holding position. The way things looked here, however….

“We could have used those Army Rangers to help stem the tide,” Philips said.

“The Army Rangers and others are fighting the Eagle Teams in the airport,” Ramos said. “Everyone headed toward us has turned around to save Anchorage. They have to knock out those Eagle Teams before more Chinese land there.”

“I know,” Philips said. “You’ve explained it to me. My question is: what do we do now? Our united front is just about smashed, with no reinforcements coming to help save our bacon.”

Ramos scowled at the glowing red haze that was the Junction. He turned and stared down Moose Pass. His brigade and Militiamen had been worn away. He had to save these weary men. He snapped his fingers. He had an idea.

“What miracle are you going to produce today?” Philips asked.

“Not me,” said Ramos. “But there might be one coming.”

“What do we do?”

Ramos pointed where the enemy T-66s roamed. “We roar through the Junction. The miracle lies there, with two enemy forces trying to use the same highway. It’s called a traffic jam. The Junction is a gauntlet now, and we’re going to lose men and vehicles. But in that direction lays our hope. Are you ready?”

“Give the order, sir.”

“That’s it!” shouted Jose. “We’re down to four shells.”

Stan had circles around his eyes and the inside of the Abrams smelled like gunpowder. Outside the tank was bloody snow, shell-holes, corpses, burning Marauders, burning IFVs, Bradleys, an obliterated M1A2 and too many destroyed M1A3s. There were also seven wrecked T-66s. Some had lost treads; others were smoking hulks. A few had engine failures and they had been swarmed and destroyed.

“Go, Hank,” Stan said. “Just go.”

The big tank lurched. A roar sounded. An enemy shell screamed past, but it missed.

“Faster!” shouted Stan.

At that moment, Strykers appeared from nowhere. Their M2 Brownings and the auto-grenade launchers added to the mayhem. They roared down Highway One. Humvees tried to do the same trick. Half of them exploded, flipped or the drivers pitched forward, instant corpses. It was another bloodbath, with Chinese vehicles and men firing into the cauldron.

Stan’s tanks were the rearguard. They fired. The machine guns blazed, and the last Americans bolted from the battlefield. Despite Major Benson’s initial successes, it had been a rout.

This had happened before, but reinforcements had always been busying setting up another line of defense in the rear area. Those troops that would have done so were in Anchorage or they were heading back to help throw out the Eagle Teams at the airport.

It looked like the way was open for an even faster Chinese advance, maybe to the very gates of Anchorage itself.