Invasion: Alaska

-15- Deer Hunters

The President strode into the conference chamber of White House Bunker Number Five. He approached his chair, stopped and scanned the expectant throng.

Anna Chen watched from her spot at the table.

A wintry smile twitched President Clark’s mouth. “I have an announcement to make,” he said. “It’s the first piece of good news I’ve had for some time.”

“Sir?” asked the haggard Secretary of State.

“I’ve just spoken with the Prime Minister of Canada,” Clark said. “The opposition Party threatened a vote of no confidence. They knew many of the Prime Minister’s Party members were angry with his do-nothing policy against the Chinese.”

“Are the Canadians finally going to help us?” the Secretary of State asked.

Clark frowned.

Anna wondered if he wanted to savor the news before telling them.

“Yes,” Clark said. “Even as I speak, Canadian fighters are heading for Anchorage. If we’re lucky, they’ll keep the Chinese from landing reinforcements at the airport.”

“We must take the airport back!” the Defense Secretary said.

President Clark sat down at the table. “The Canadians are rushing Airborne troops there to help us do just that. They’re also airlifting defensive equipment.”

“What kind of equipment, sir?” the Defense Secretary asked.

“Canadian laser batteries and SAMs,” the President said.

“Why did they wait so long?” asked the Secretary of State.

Clark shook his head. “I don’t know. But we have a chance again. We have a window of opportunity to rearm Anchorage. The Chinese are grinding our Air Force down to nothing, but this infusion of planes will help us keep fighting a little longer.”

“Thank God for that,” the Defense Secretary said.

“Now if we could just get the Mexican government to loan us equipment,” Colin Green said.

“It would help,” said Clark. He slapped the table. “The Canadians are keeping us alive. Now we need to do something to end this war. We need ideas.”

“We need more troops,” the Defense Secretary said.

Clark turned to General Alan. “What’s happening on the Northern Front?”

General Alan cleared his throat and began to speak.

Pastor Bill Harris lay on cold earth as he peered through his binoculars at a convoy of Chinese vehicles. They were big trucks, and they were full of supplies, using Highway One. Pines grew tall on the other side of the road.

“Well, Pastor?” asked the man beside Bill.

Sergeant Bill Harris of the Alaskan Militia lowered the binoculars. Over a week ago, he’d fought T-66s at Cooper Landing and barely escaped from his foxhole. His hearing was still lousy, with a constant ringing in his ears. Maybe as bad, his back hurt all the time.

He opened a bottle of aspirin, pouring three capsules onto his palm. He’d run out of Advil several days ago. He popped the aspirin into his mouth and began chewing. They were dry and bitter, but they helped dull the pain.

Bill lifted his bottle toward his friend Nanook, who sat nearby, deeper in the woods. The Inuit mechanic wore what looked like a turban. It swathed his face, with only his eyes showing. He had bad burns and he’d lost all his hair. Nanook shook his head. The man was a liability stuck out here behind enemy lines, but there was no way Bill was going to leave his buddy behind. He’d vowed to bring his friend home to his family.

“Well?” asked the man beside Bill.

Bill capped the bottle and shoved it into his pocket as he stayed on his belly. He wanted to go home to his wife and kids. But he had to stop the invasion.

The blasts that had destroyed a T-66 at Cooper Landing had also rendered Nanook unconscious. Three Militiamen had dragged him out of the battle and hidden with him as Chinese infantry swept the area. Now the five of them remained free, although they were behind enemy lines. The Chinese advance had passed them a week ago.

“We can still help our side,” Bill had told the others last night as they sat around a campfire in the woods. He had gotten sick of doing nothing.

“How can we help?” a man named Carlos Martinez had asked.

“Do any of you remember our invasion of Iraq thirty years ago?” Bill had been thinking about this for some time.

“The first or second invasion?” Carlos was a bank clerk who, like Bill, loved hunting. Carlos was also a corporal in the Militia and a member of Bill’s church.

“The second invasion, on our drive to Baghdad,” Bill had said.

“What about Baghdad?” Carlos was a thin man with bowed legs. In another life, Carlos had played basketball after church some Sundays with Stan and the others.

Last night, Bill had told them what Stan Higgins had told him before. “We sliced through the Iraqi Army back then. Nothing could stop our tanks and APCs.”

Carlos had watched him closely.

“The great fear on our side was that Iraqi commandos or soldiers would hit our supply columns coming in behind the tanks. The supply vehicles were thin-skinned, mostly Army trucks. The Iraqis hit a few, but never in any number. Well, we have a similar situation here. The Chinese aren’t just roaring through to Anchorage in a few days, but there’s not much to stop those T-66s for long, either. Luckily for us, the terrain gets rougher the closer they come to Anchorage. My guess is it’s a mess right now, if I know Stan Higgins. The Chinese are grinding through. That means they must be burning up lots of supplies, particularly ammo.”

“What’s your point?”

“We’re still stuck behind enemy lines, but we’re alive and we have weapons and enough .50 caliber ammo to do something. I say we start hunting Chinese supply vehicles. We do what Saddam’s Iraqis should have done to us.”

“How do we stay alive at the same time?”

“By judiciously choosing our time of attack.”

“What do you say?” one of the other Militiamen had asked Carlos. “Do you think that’s a good idea? I want to get out of this mess. I don’t want to play the hero and end up dead.”

Carlos had scratched his head, nodding after a time. “I remember my schooling about the American Revolution. Most people didn’t do anything back then. They just wanted to stay alive, a perfectly good thing, I might add. But that kind of thinking wouldn’t have won America its freedom. Maybe one third of the population was for American Independence. Even less fought for their freedom. Well, I want to be one of those who fights for liberty. I want to be free. Tell us what to do, Pastor.”

“I don’t know,” the other Militiaman had said. “We’re just five men. What can five men do to change the tide of war?”

“Men defend their home,” Bill had said. “Alaska is our home and we must defend it.”

“I agree to that,” Carlos had said.

Bill swallowed the last of his aspirin now as he lay on his belly at the edge of the woods. He counted six big Chinese Army trucks heading up the road. There were soldiers in the cabs. The nearest section of road was a football field away from their position. Soldotna was only a few miles away from here. If they attacked, the Chinese military would have to react. The five of them would be hunted men after this.

“It’s time,” said Bill, who crawled backward, a little deeper into the shade of the pines.

Wearing his duck-hunting camouflage gear, Carlos crawled beside Bill.

Nanook slowly climbed up from where he sat. “You need help?” He slurred as he spoke.

“Yes,” Bill told his friend. “You help me and Carlos.”

The three men picked up an M2 Browning machine gun. With the tripod, it weighed one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. They lugged it to the edge of the forest. The other two Militiamen wrestled a second M2 into position.

“We’re only going to take one of these weapons with us once we’re done attacking here,” Bill told the others. “So you don’t need to worry about saving ammo for your gun. Aim low, and try to fire in bursts. Start with the front vehicle and make it stop. Then work back to the next truck. If you see any soldiers jumping out—and especially if they’re firing at us—kill them. Any questions?”

No one had any.

Bill took a deep breath. The big trucks took a bend in the road. He could hear them shifting gears as the trucks began to climb. Soon they would be in range. Why did his stomach have to clench so tightly? He’d been in combat before. He was a veteran, but he sure didn’t feel like one. Did a man ever get used to this?

Nanook panted as he knelt beside the tripod-mounted M2. Carlos prepared more ammo belts, ready to feed them into the death-dealing weapon. In World War One, machine guns like this had been the big killer.

“If we cut the supply lines their army will wither away,” Bill said softly. “We’re not cutting that line here, but we are going to make them bleed. If we can make them bleed enough, the Chinese attack will collapse.”

Carlos nodded.

Bill waited as the trucks kept grinding up the rise, and his stomach churned even more. He didn’t want to murder men, and this felt close to murder. But the Chinese had invaded Alaska. He had a right to defend his country.

Taking a deep breath, aligning his sights on the cab of the lead truck, Bill depressed one of the buttons with his thumb. The M2 Browning had a V-shaped “butterfly” trigger at the very rear of the weapon. With his thumb down, the M2 hammered out armor-piercing incendiary tracer bullets. It was a visible stream of death. Bill adjusted as he hosed the lead truck. The bullets began puncturing the cab. As they hit, the bullets smoked on contact as designed, helping Bill know where he hit.

A second later, the heavy truck slewed across the highway. Then it skidded. Bill could hear it from here. A moment later, the truck flipped onto its side because the driver must have cranked the steering wheel too sharply. The driver must have panicked or maybe he’d been dying.

The other machine-gunner shouted wildly as crates flew out of the flipped truck.

Now the other trucks stopped. Cab doors flew opened and Chinese soldiers jumped onto the highway. They gripped assault rifles. Some dropped onto their bellies and began firing. A few ran for the side of the highway.

Bill took his thumb off the trigger-button and swiveled the machine gun. He opened fire again, adjusting as the tracer rounds visibly shot over the enemies’ heads. Then running enemy soldiers began falling as he hit them. Those on their bellies must have seen the tracer rounds. They must have visibly followed them back to their source, too, because the enemy redirected their assault-rifle fire. Bill heard bullets hissing past him, while bark flew off nearby trees.

Bill shouted as the .50 caliber weapon chugged away. It was better at long range than the assault rifles. At that moment, an enemy bullet hit Bill in the chest. He tumbled backward and lay on the cold dirt breathing heavily.

“Bill!” shouted Carlos.

With a groan, Bill sat up and scrambled back to the machine gun. Looted durasteel body-armor had saved him from death. If the Chinese had fired .50 caliber bullets, the armor wouldn’t have saved him.

“You okay?” shouted Carlos.

For an answer, Bill gripped the machine gun and began firing again. He scowled fiercely, determined and shooting with bitter accuracy. It was grim work, and he began hitting Chinese lying on the road.

“You don’t get to win this time,” Bill whispered. Suddenly, his machine gun went click, click, click.

An enemy bullet whanged off a tree. Another shot hissed uncomfortably near. It made his chest throb where the enemy bullet had hit his armor.

Carlos opened the machine gun’s latch. He slid in the next belt and chambered the first round. “Ready!” Carlos shouted.

Bill began firing again. One of the trucks behind the remaining soldiers lying on the road exploded in an orange fireball. The M2’s incendiary rounds were made to ignite fuel tanks. Three of the nearest Chinese leapt to their feet.

Bill cut them down. They fell in such a ragged way that it almost didn’t seem human. One of the Chinese pitched his rifle away in his death throes. Another of them curled up on the road like a burning bug. This was terrible, but Bill had to do it. He knew he’d feel guilty later. It made him think of Stan’s dad killing men in Afghanistan. No wonder Colonel Higgins’ mind had turned on itself. This was sickening, but it was better than dying himself.

Then it was over. No more Chinese fired back. All the trucks had stopped, several of them were burning, and all of them had flat tires. Bill found himself blinking in shock at what he’d done.

“We did it,” Carlos said. The Militia corporal was shaking. “I helped you kill men.” Carlos was wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

Why do we feel so unclean?

Carlos twisted onto his hands and knees, puking on the ground.

Something about that woke Bill to their danger. “We have to go,” he said. “Now!” Then he realized he heard a chopper. It wasn’t right on top of them yet, but he was sure it was coming for them. “Go!” Bill roared at the other team.

“We still have ammo!” one of them shouted. “We’re taking it.”

“Okay,” Bill said. “Carlos?”

“I’m fine,” Carlos said, getting up and wiping his mouth. The corporal picked up the tripod mount, handing it to Bill. Afterward, the bank clerk wrestled the heavy machine gun onto his shoulder. It was a grim burden.

“Come on, Nanook,” Bill said softly, helping his friend to his feet. “We have to run into the woods.”

“We got them,” Nanook whispered. “We did it.”

“We’re fighting,” Bill said, as he picked up a box of ammo. Nanook took another box before heading deeper into the pines. “We’re going to keep fighting,” said Bill. “Maybe if there are enough of us doing this, it will help us win the war.”

“We’ll win,” said Carlos. There was conviction in his voice.

“I hope you’re right,” said Bill. He knew Carlos, however. The man said that even when he was losing twenty to three playing one-on-one basketball. Still, that was better than having a bitter pessimist along. The chopper sounded closer now, so Bill increased the pace, hoping Nanook could keep up with them. After what he’d just done, he knew he had to bring Nanook home or he could never preach again. He had to atone some way for all this dreadful killing.

Lieutenant Chiang of the Eagle Teams squinted at a bomber roaring over his position. It had a maple leaf painted on the wing.

“The Canadians are here,” he told his First Rank.

Chiang and his First Rank held a sandbag strongpoint at the airport. Three times, they had fought off the Americans trying to retake the place. They’d used up all their RPGs and most of their assault-gun ammo. Some time ago, he had lost contact with the commander.

“We need to be re-supplied and reinforced,” the First Rank said.

Chiang nodded. “I don’t think Admiral Ling counted on the Canadians joining the fight.”

“Sir!” the First Rank said, interrupting. “Look over there.”

A Bradley clanked around a building. This one had Canadian markings.

“We need an RPG,” the First Rank said bitterly.

Chiang debated putting on his jetpack and flying one last time. He loved drifting in the air like a bird. Then the Bradley fired. Chiang and the First Rank ducked, but it didn’t matter. The shell hit and Lieutenant Chiang died defending the Anchorage airport.

Admiral Ling stared at the table in his ready room. He had taken the international airport. Then the Canadians had decided to play the part of men. A costly air battle with them had kept him from reinforcing his war-winning move in Anchorage. Even now, Canadian and American soldiers reoccupied the airport.

If that wasn’t enough, American partisans harried his supply-lines. The partisans bled him of precious munitions. Worst of all, however, was the incompetence of the Chairman’s nephew, the Vice-Admiral.

“No!” said Ling. He struck a table and his eyes were red with anger and lack of sleep. “The imbecile, the buffoon! How dare he cheat me of my carefully wrought victory. I have paid with precious Chinese blood for this chance to roar our troops to Anchorage. Now this opportunity to quickly advance is being snatched out of my hands.”

“Please, Admiral, I ask you to calm down,” Commodore Yen said.

“How can I calm down when that fool nephew of the Chairman has thrown my carefully calculated plans into disarray?”

“You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Do you deny that his imbecility has hopelessly entangled our two commands?”

“He is eager for the laurels—”

“I will not listen to you defend him!” Ling shouted. “He has cost me a quick victory. Our brigades are now hopelessly entangled on Highway One. Everything has been brought to a standstill. Worse, the Canadians have infused the Americans with badly needed planes and reinforcements. It gave the Americans time to deal with the Eagle Teams in Anchorage. No doubt, they will now race reinforcements to their shattered troops clinging to the highway.”

“The Canadians were a surprise. There was nothing we could do about them, sir. I also realize the Vice-Admiral acted precipitously, but you dare not relieve him of duty.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Ling asked.

Commodore Yen sat down.

Ling turned away. He had read the reports. A huge traffic jam now ensnarled the lead brigades of the two separate commands. It would take days to sort it out. During those days, the Americans could reestablish another strong defensive line. It would give them that much more time to receive reinforcements and supplies from Fairbanks. At least that much had worked. The Eagle Teams, while they had lived, had demolished much of the Anchorage airport.

“Sir, what about these partisans destroying our supplies?” asked Yen. “They are starting to become a problem.”

“The Americans are lice,” muttered Ling, “gun-carrying lice. I never knew a land could possess so many civilian weapons. It will make our occupation that much harder.”

“Perhaps the White Tiger Commandoes could deal with these rear-area partisans.”

Ling’s breathing lessened. At last, the admiral nodded. “Yes, we must continue fighting. We must battle it out to the end because the Vice-Admiral threw his brigades after the Americans. If only the man could listen to orders.”

“The time for vengeance will come, sir.”

Ling slammed his fist on the table. “I don’t care about vengeance. I care about winning this war. We must win! We must win soon. Time runs against us.”

“We shall win, sir. You broke the Americans once. You shattered their defenses. You will do so again.”

Admiral Ling nodded. “Let us hope you are right.”

Anna Chen settled into her chair in White House Bunker Number Five. She wore her hair down, a conservative dress and make-up. She wore heels, but not too high. With her legs crossed, she listened to the others. Ever since she’d given the President the okay to use a nuclear-tipped torpedo on an Arctic supply dump, he had desired her opinion more often. Fortunately, the U.S. military had refrained from using more nuclear weapons.

“Sir,” said the Defense Secretary, “I’m against making this move now.”

“I have to agree with him, Mr. President,” the Secretary of State said.

President Clark nodded solemnly, with his hands folded on the table. “Ms. Chen, what do you think?”

“What do your admirals say, Mr. President?” Anna asked.

Clark glanced at General Alan.

“Half agree that the Chinese Carrier Fleet has taken heavy air losses during the campaign,” General Alan said. “The Canadians have aided us at a most critical moment. The two American carrier-wings could possibly slip in and catch the invasion fleet by surprise, doing severe damage. The other admirals point out that the two Atlantic carriers are almost to the Pacific. Together, our four carriers could well force the seven Chinese carriers away from Alaska. They suggest that would win us the war.”

“You know what the admirals think, sir,” Anna told the President. “What do your generals say about Anchorage?”

“They’ve never changed their tune,” the Defense Secretary said, interrupting. “The generals want the Navy to bail them out of a bad situation. The generals keep screaming they need more air cover to do anything. Thanks to the Canadians, Anchorage is still in American hands. Mr. President,” the Defense Secretary said with urgency. “We must hold in Anchorage with what we have before we throw away the carriers that could win us everything.”

“The Chinese naval infantry keep advancing, breaking through our defenses,” said Clark. “Soon, the Chinese will be in Anchorage’s suburbs. We have to stop them.”

“Soldiers always cry for more aid,” Colin Green said. “I suggest you wait out events until they turn in our favor, just as happened with the Canadian Prime Minister.”

“I don’t agree,” Anna said. Colin Green shot her a venomous glance. She ignored it.

“Do you see something the rest of us are missing?” Clark asked her.

“Sir,” the Defense Secretary said. “Ms. Chen knows her Chinese and possibly the Chairman’s mind, but I do not think she is an expert on military matters.”

“She’s brought us luck,” said Clark. “The Chinese ice-mobile formations haven’t attacked our North Slope. I think we’re winning there. We’ve frightened them by our resolve. Are you saying,” the President asked Anna, “that we can frighten the Chinese now by attacking their fleet?”

“The air war seems like the critical factor, Mr. President,” Anna said. She’d heard one of the air chiefs tell the President that over the speakerphone. “We need more fighters now so the Chinese can’t dominate the skies over the battlefield. Well, the Navy has more fighters. Send them into battle at this decisive moment, before the Chinese break into Anchorage or take the airport a second time. I’ve heard everyone say that once Anchorage falls, South Central Alaska falls. If South Central Alaska falls, the state falls. This could be the defining moment of the battle.”

“You don’t know that,” the Defense Secretary said.

“That the Chinese are closing in on Anchorage tells me that I do,” Anna said, surprised at her boldness.

“Yes!” Clark said, standing. He struck the table with his knuckles. “Anna Chen is our Chinese expert. She gave me excellent advice concerning the nuclear weapon under the polar ice.”

“If you’ll recall, Mr. President,” the Defense Secretary said, “I’ve always suggested we go nuclear.”

“Yes, you did say that,” Clark admitted, frowning now.

“If you’ve made your decision, sir,” General Alan said, “I’d like to call the Navy and tell them to proceed.”

Clark blinked at Anna Chen. Then the President told General Alan, “Give them the go-head.”

Captain Han was a wreck. The prolonged exposure to frontal assaults with remote-controlled Marauders—and the accompanying death-shocks—had caused a decline in the captain’s performance and mental health. His superiors had taken notice and sent him to a nexus psychiatrist.

“You must harden your resolve,” the psychiatrist now told him. The stern major wore a compelling black uniform, which tightly conformed to her figure. She had particularly large breasts, which strained at the buttons of her uniform.

“The shocks—” Han said.

“No!” the psychiatrist said, sitting up, frowning and tapping the computer-slate which she held in her lap. “You are not here to complain against stated procedures. You are here for me to cure you of your maladjustments.”

“…the shocks cause me to fear,” said Han. As much as he preferred Japanese schoolgirls, the major intrigued him.

“What did I just say, Captain?” the major asked.

Han wasn’t sure what she’d said, but he wanted her to frown again.

“Captain Han, do I have your attention?”

He stood at parade rest as she sat in a chair beside him. Her office contained many diplomas hanging from the walls, as well as pictures of her with highly-ranked Party officials and officers. There were also many brightly-colored geometric shapes in the room on tables and stands.

Han began to unbutton his jacket as he imagined her—

“Captain Han,” she said, snapping her fingers.

Han blinked in surprise at his open jacket. What had he been doing?

With a computer-stylus, she jotted on her slate, writing quickly.

“What are you writing about me?” he asked, wanting to look. She held her slate so he couldn’t see.

“That is no concern of yours,” she said. She clicked the stylus onto the slate, setting it on her nylon-covered knees. “You are a clever man, a noted computer specialist. Surely, you must understand the necessity of the simulated shocks as you remote-control military vehicles from your pit.”

“Yes. It’s been explained to me many times.”

“Then I fail to understand—”

“What if you were shocked every time you failed your appointed task?” Han asked.

Her back stiffened, and she spoke with a nasal quality. “I’m not the one under interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” asked Han, alarmed for the first time. He’d thought this was a mental-health reevaluation. An interrogation could bring serious demerits to his military profile.

She gave him a shark-like smile and nodded primly. “Finally, I have your attention. That is an improvement. Now listen closely, Captain. The authorities have created a new penal remote-control center where they will double the intensity of the death-shocks.”

“But that’s hideous!” cried Han.

“Ah,” she said, picking up the stylus. “Was that a subversive comment against the State?”

“What?” asked Han. “No, no.”

“What did you mean then with your objection?” she asked, the stylus poised.

Han thought furiously. “I-I thought you were here to help me.”

“I am,” she said. “I am here to help you regain your martial fervor for the honor of Chinese conquest. Your superiors feel you have become self-absorbed and spend far too much time worrying about your physical and mental well-being. What you need to remember, Captain, is that China not only possesses the oldest culture on the planet, but the most superior culture as well. You are part of that culture, not an individualized person as the enemy suggests. You are united into a powerful whole and must always think of China’s good before you agonize over your own petty problems.”

“I totally agree with you,” Han said.

She shook her head. “You do not say that with true zeal. In fact, your words just now sounded forced, as if you spoke to guard yourself from further punishment.”

Han forced urgency into his words even as he remained at parade rest with his hands behind his back. “I love China.”

“Do you really, Captain Han, or do you just say that to avoid transfer to the new penal remote-controlling unit?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I love my country more than anything else in the world.”

“Do you love China more than your own miserable creature comforts?”

“I do, I do,” Han said.

“I see,” she said, studying him. “Would you give up your rank for China’s greater glory?”

“Yes,” said Han, wondering if they were going to kick him out of the Space Service. At this point, that might be a good thing.

Her eyes narrowed. “Your profile states quite clearly,” she said, glancing at her slate, “that you are very proud of your status in the Chinese Space Service.”

“It is the greatest achievement of my life,” said Han.

“Yet for the love of China, you would willingly give it up?”

“Utterly,” said Han.

The tiniest of smiles tugged at the corner of her lipstick-painted lips. “Then I must tell you this, Captain Han. And I want you to listen most closely. Are you listening?”

He nodded fervently, beginning to hate her. He should strip off her nylons and flip up her skirt, put her over his knees and spank her until she begged him to stop.

She snapped her fingers. “What is that look in your eyes?” she asked. “They glaze over as I speak to you. Are you drugged, Captain Han?”

“I’ve worked hard for China’s glory,” he said quietly, trying to pump patriotism into his words. What was wrong with him? Why did he keep sinking into his sexual fantasies? Was it a side-effect of the many dosages of S-15 they kept injecting into him? “It has been my privilege to strive for China’s honor, yet I’ve begun to wonder lately if I’ve overworked myself. I might no longer be able to function with full efficiency. Perhaps I must decline returning to the remote—”

The major laughed. “That is a good try, Captain. But you have apparently forgotten that I am a psychiatrist. I can see through your pathetic attempt to dodge the death-shocks. You may love China, but you love your own well-being far too much. That is clear. Now you may avoid further death-shocks by admitting to me that you’re a coward. Then I will request the enforcing arm of the remote-controllers to make an example of you. We psychiatrists designed the shocks to stimulate a soldier’s battlefield efforts. We wanted you remote-controllers to perform your tasks with zeal. We wanted you to act with a soldier’s kill-or-die fervor.”

“But I’ve been part of the suicide assaults!” cried Han. “Your reasoning and the shocks are unjust.”

“Stop right there or face the enforcement arm,” the major said coldly. “Your kind disgusts me.” She shook her head. “I can hardly force myself to give you another chance. Still, I follow my orders instead of indulging in my desire, which is to see a worm like you punished to the full extent of the military penal code. However, because I am here to give you a choice, I will still allow you to make one. Tell me which you prefer: enforcement or the chance to win even more glory by returning to your remote-controlling station?”

“Are there others like me?” asked Han. “Men who are tiring of the shocks?”

Her features tightened. “That is privileged information, Captain. Now you must give me your choice.”

Han almost turned and slapped her face, and there was no telling what he would have done next. Maybe he would have raped her here in the office. He’d never forget the experience. His shoulders slumped. The problem was that East Lightning would torture him a long time if he did that. Han hung his head. He nodded submissively.

“I would like to return to service,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Very well,” she said. “Then I am required to inform you of a surprising development. My superiors believe this information will heighten your enthusiasm for combat, although after speaking to you I have my doubts. Know, Captain Han, that you have achieved one of the highest kill-rates. If by the end of the conflict, you have achieved the highest kill ratio, you will be promoted to major.”

“Oh,” he said. Then he realized she might mark him down for lack of enthusiasm. He forced a smile. “I am delighted to hear this. I will perform to the satisfaction of the Space Service.”

“Hmm,” she said, as she tapped her computer-stylus against her slate. “This is against my better judgment, but my superiors are interested in knowing if you would rather return to controlling Marauders or go back to controlling recon drones. We have found that it is wiser for the remote-controllers to gain proficiency in one area rather than spreading his talents. Because you are rated an expert at each, you now have this choice. The greater need, however, is for good Marauder controllers.”

“I love China with all my heart,” said Han, “but I would prefer the recon drones. They are more like the space vehicles I was trained to fly.”

The major frowned, making notes on the slate. “Very well, Captain Han, you have made your choice. I’m not surprised you ran back to controlling recon drones. Because of that, I am recommending that you be watched even more strictly than before.”

That sounded ominous, and Han feared for his future, but he wasn’t going to change his decision. He dreaded another death-shock and he would do just about anything to avoid receiving it.

Nine hours later, he was back in the Nexus Center. They had honored his request, and he now controlled a fleet drone from a pit. The two techs from before continued to work with him.

Han wore a VR helmet and twitch gloves. His long-endurance drone was high in the air, taking the place of a regular recon satellite. This close to America, such recon satellites were easy targets for the North American ABM Lasers. Because of that, the invasion fleet had come to rely on the high-flying drones for advanced reconnaissance in the outer zones.

The techs had explained it to Han so he understood the importance of his mission. There was growing evidence the Americans would stab at the fleet. Therefore, Admiral Ling had moved his ships and spread out his recon net. The techs had explained to Han the various dangers. The Americans had several weapon’s platforms to use against the fleet, particularly against the seven supercarriers. First were aircraft, whether carrier-launched or land-based. Next were cruise missiles, which were a form of aircraft electronically controlled by a battle-computer. The same defensive basics would protect the fleet from both aircraft and cruise missiles. There were also ASBM-attacks and submarine assaults via cruise missiles or torpedoes.

Han’s role as a remote-controller of a recon drone was as an early-warning tripwire against aircraft and cruise missiles. The Navy had another means for spotting torpedo-launching subs.

The Chinese carriers had moved well away from the Kenai Peninsula. The admiral had taken his ships farther south and westward, giving the fleet a greater cushion. Many of the naval strike-craft battling for Alaskan air superiority used airbases behind the present Chinese line-of-advance.

The seven carriers had three protective zones. The first was the primary zone. It extended forty to fifty kilometers from the carriers and their escorts. Ship-borne sensors monitored this zone. Electronic weapons defended the carriers. There were jetfighters, surface-to-air missiles, guns and jammers to blind cruise-missile homing systems. Helicopters and ships also gave off carrier-like signals to try to fool the enemy weapons into firing at them instead of the more critical aircraft carriers.

Carrier-launched patrol-craft monitored the middle zone. The carriers’ fighters were the chief defenders here. However, if given enough warning time, ships would attempt to maneuver into position, interposing themselves between the enemy and the carriers. Those defensive ships would then use primary zone weapons and tactics to defeat the enemy.

The last and largest zone was the outer one. It extended seven hundred kilometers and beyond. Satellites, land-based patrol-craft and stationary sensor-systems gave advanced warning. In lieu of satellites, long-endurance, high-flying drones had taken their place. The techs had informed Han that the outer zone was probably the most important. It gave the fleet needed warning time in order to launch attack-craft against cruise-missile launchers (ships or submarines) and against enemy carriers before the enemy got into an attack position. It also gave warning time to send defensive ships into position between the enemy and the precious carriers.

Han had listened to their explanations, given the correct responses and entered the pit. The moment he donned the VR helmet, however, he silently vowed to himself that he would avoid all death-shocks.

They care nothing about me. I must save myself or lose my sanity as they shock me into imbecility.

What did he owe China anyway, if China did nothing to look after him? Was he supposed to give up everything he valued for a concept?

No!

It was ludicrous for anyone to think he would. So what if he was Chinese? Did that mean he should let other Chinese shock him? He wasn’t crazy, but they were making him so. Yes, he could understand the reasoning behind the shocks. Maybe mild ones would help. But they had gone too far. The simulation of death….

They’re killing me.

Well, he would no longer have any part of it. If they were going to threaten him… he’d have to watch out for himself, that’s all.

Han sat in the Mukden pit, in the padded chair, twitching his gloves. He saw things from the drone’s perspective—far below was the Pacific Ocean. There were wispy clouds and way down he spied the choppy water. Even though he was in the pit, he seemed to soar in the heavens and let himself relax.

From time to time, he shifted and rerouted certain key monitoring systems aboard the drone. Nothing must alert the watching techs, certainly not active radar readings. If he used the drone’s radar to spot something deadly, the Americans would know. If the Americans knew, they would launch missiles at him. If the missiles destroyed the drone, he would receive the death-shock. Therefore, the reasoning was obvious: he must remain quietly unaware of anything. That meant shutting off passive systems as well. For if the techs saw anything strange on their boards, they would force him to turn on the active radar.

With great computer cunning, Han put a repeater pattern before his active systems, and then he shut them down. The techs would never suspect. Later, a few minutes before he came out of the pit, he would reactivate the systems.

“It is quiet today,” a tech said some time later.

“That makes me suspicious,” said Han.

“Our boards show nothing unwarranted. Why are you suspicious?”

“Are you kidding?” asked Han. “I spoke with the psychiatrist. She showed me why it is important I do my task no matter how painful it might be to me.”

“That is a wise attitude, Captain. The talk did you good.”

“I realize now how important my task is,” Han said.

“Good. Now less talk and give more attention to detail.”

“I agree,” said Han, who within his helmet smiled hugely to himself.

An hour later, Captain Han spied movement far below the drone. It made his heart race. He quickly changed his flight pattern and focused his cameras on a different part of the grid.

“Are you well, Captain?” a tech asked. “Your health monitor shows that your heart-rate has increased.”

“That is interesting,” said Han.

“I see nothing on the boards,” the other tech said.

“What frightened you, Captain?”

“A stray thought concerning my personal life,” Han said. “It is nothing.”

“Keep your mind focused, Captain. Your session ends in another two hours. Worry about your personal life then.”

“Yes, sir,” said Han.

“Humph,” said the tech. “He’s acting strangely.”

The other tech didn’t say anything to that, so Han no longer worried. He had set up a visual pattern for himself and for the techs on their boards. In other words, he’d blinded the recon drone. If his heart rate would give him away, he’d be content to look at nothing so that didn’t happen. Just as long as no machine death-shocked him anymore. Then he could begin to relax and regain his normal cheery composure.

Thirty-five minutes later, an alarm went off in the chamber. It shook Han awake from his semi-slumber. He blinked groggily in his helmet as the techs shouted at each other.

“Captain Han! Captain Han!” one of them shouted. “Check your systems. Are they active?”

“Yes, yes,” said Han, “of course they are.” Frightened, he began to reengage each of the systems. Perhaps he was too sleepy. He didn’t do it with as much skill as he’d demonstrated when de-activating them.

“What are you doing?” cried a tech.

“What’s the matter anyway?” asked Han, who glove-twitched furiously. “Why all the alarm?”

There was silence from the techs as Han began to twitch with greater awareness.

“What’s this, Captain?” a tech shouted. “You just switched one of the drone’s settings.”

“You must be mistaken,” said Han.

“He’s turning the systems on and off,” the other tech said in wonder.

At that moment, there was loud banging, like a door striking a wall. Feet pounded on the chamber’s floor and equipment clattered against what sounded like body-armor. Thoroughly frightened, Han tore off his helmet. An enforcer-lieutenant entered the room and pointed a gun at him, with three other scary-looking sergeants doing the same thing.

“What’s the matter?” cried Han.

“Sabotage!” shouted the lieutenant, his muscular face a blotchy red color.

Han looked up at the bewildered techs.

“The American carriers used your recon corridor!” the lieutenant shouted. “Their aircraft are attacking our carriers as we speak! Captain Han, you are under arrest as a CIA spy. So are you two! You filthy traitors sicken me.”

“No, no!” shouted the shorter tech. “It was all Captain Han’s fault. Without our knowledge, he de-activated his drone’s sensors.” The tech pointed at Han down in the pit.

The lieutenant stepped up to the tech. With his gun-holding hand, he smashed the man across the forehead. The tech crashed to the floor, moaning and clutching his bleeding head.

“You’re a nest of traitors without even the manhood to stick together!” the lieutenant snarled. He waved his gun. “Shackle them. We’re going to take them down to interrogation and find out exactly how and why this treachery occurred. I promise you that.”

It was then that Captain Han began to shout incoherently, cursing the lieutenant, China and most of all the Space Service.

Lu Po, the hero of the San Francisco raid, had returned to where he and his White Tiger Commandos had originally landed in Alaska. It was a cold day, with the wind blowing and snow swirling.

Rumors had already made the rounds that Admiral Ling was angry. The Americans had struck at the fleet, sinking two carriers. Many Chinese fighters had also crashed into the ocean. Others were heavily damaged. Perhaps as bad, Lu had heard that a fuel tanker had gone up in flames during the attack, as had two munitions vessels. That had increased nervousness in High Command about the continued American harassment-attacks on the Kenai supply lines.

Suppress the partisans with vigor. That order had popped up on Lu’s email yesterday.

In his snow-camouflaged combat suit, Lu presently stood under evergreens near the road as several of his Commandos threw ropes over the lowest and heaviest branches. Four Americans knelt nearby, two of them teenage boys. There was a woman among them, the reason his men were only using three ropes. His team would take the woman to a detention center.

Lu glanced at the Americans on their knees in the snow. One was much older, the father likely. Yes, one of the boys and the woman resembled the old man. The father whispered earnestly to the three youngsters. The smallest had tears in his eyes. He was the weakling of the group. The older teenager glared at the White Tigers. That one had fire. All of them, including the woman, had their hands tied behind their backs. These four were partisans, formerly armed with civilian weapons. There had been a Colt .45, a Winchester lever-action and two Remington shotguns. Lu had been amazed at the amount of ammunition each of the Americans had been carrying.

The four had poured sugar into the gas tanks of several trucks and shot at Chinese soldiers. There had been far too much sabotage lately. Even before the American air strike on the fleet, High Command had become concerned, especially with the continued attack on supply dumps and trucks.

That is why they called for us. The White Tigers can deal with any situation.

Even better, partisan-hunting behind the front meant he didn’t have to face professional soldiers but these winter warriors. Look, the smaller boy was crying aloud as his tears dripped to the snow. The boy and the father should have thought of that before they dared pick up rifles against the occupation.

Lu filled his lungs with cold air. He saw that everything was ready, so Lu Po snapped his fingers.

White Tigers lifted the three males to their feet and chased them with bayonets to the ropes. The youngest screamed, and struggled to free his hands. The father spoke even more urgently to that one.

“It’s too late for that,” Lu said, as he strode to them.

Several White Tigers threw nooses around the three necks.

“Don’t hang my little brother!” the oldest teenager shouted.

Lu snapped his fingers.

White Tigers pulled, hoisting the three gurgling partisans into the air as their legs kicked.

The red-haired woman, with tears streaking down her cheeks, watched in horror. Then she stared at the White Tigers staring at her.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” she whispered.

Before Lu could answer, his belt-computer beeped. He unclipped it and checked his messages. There was another, more dangerous partisan band fifty kilometers from here. Command wanted his White Tigers to take care of it. There were helicopters coming to pick them up, but no one to take the woman to a detention center.

Lu clipped the small device back to his belt and regarded the woman. “You will have your wish,” he said.

She stared at him dumbly.

“Hang her,” said Lu. “We have bigger prey to hunt. Hurry, we must leave at once.”

Rubbing his arms in a vain effort to get warm, Militia Sergeant Bill Harris looked at his ragged, ill-fed band. He had thirteen shivering men huddled under cold pines in the snow with him. Several coughed all the time and had runny noses and sad eyes. They’d been on the run in the wilds for too long and with too little food. Some wore duck-hunting camo like him, meaning they were also Militiamen. One was a pilot who had survived his ejection. He’d broken bones in his left hand and wore a heavy, dirty wrap over it. Three were National Guardsmen. The interesting and most fit member was an old hunter. They had been eating his dwindling stocks of freeze-dried food for the past few days. Without the old hunter’s cunning, they would have died of exposure or been captured by patrolling Chinese.

“Build a fire,” the old hunter said.

The pilot shook his head. Despite his broken hand, he was an aggressive young man. “We can take a little cold, but if the Chinese see us warming ourselves by a fire we’re dead.”

“I don’t like them hanging people either,” the old hunter said. “But we’re not going to do much more if we’re all sick. We need to be warm for a while and regroup.”

“Make the fire,” Bill told the old hunter. He was sick of shivering, and he was dead tired. Tramping through the snow in the wilds with Chinese chasing them—it amazed him how the tiredness sank into his bones. It gave him a new appreciation for David when King Saul had chased him through the deserts of Israel. The next time he gave a sermon on those passages, he would add these experiences to make the Bible come to life for his parishioners.

“I still don’t understand who put you in charge,” the pilot said.

“Bill is a sergeant,” Carlos said from where he squatted.

“Yeah?” the pilot said. “Well, I’m a captain.”

“Bill’s led the group successfully,” Carlos said. “We’ve destroyed thirteen trucks full of supplies. And he rigged the perfect booby-trap with Chinese artillery shells, blowing up two IFVs and their naval infantry. What have you done again?”

“I got myself shot down because it was three against one,” the pilot said angrily. “Look, I don’t want to hang from the trees. If we do anymore now, they’re sure to send patrols after us into the woods, where we’ll probably freeze to death.”

Bill had seen Americans hanging from trees. It had shocked him even more than the invasion itself. The dangling corpse had been in plain sight along the highway. He’d worked near and had read the placard around the neck. In block letters the Chinese had written, ANY PARTISAN CAUGHT WITH A WEAPON WILL HANG. He had stared at those letters, thinking about having his arms tied behind his back and a rope looped around his neck. Something dark had entered his soul then. The Chinese wanted to play rough. He’d nodded. He would play rough all right.

“If the Chinese are hanging people,” Bill now told the others, “it means they’re desperate. It means the attacks behind enemy lines are taking a toll. I say we increase that toll.”

“What are you suggesting?” the pilot said. “Have you seen the latest convoys? They’re guarded by infantry fighting vehicles.”

“That’s right!” said Bill. “That’s another sign we’re hurting them. They’re pulling back combat vehicles from the fight to make sure they get enough supplies to the front. Now we have to hit them even harder.”

“I hope you’re not talking about slipping into the big supply dump near Sterling,” the old hunter said. He clicked a lighter, touching the flame to wadded paper crumpled under a teepee of broken sticks.

“They’ve seen that supply depot,” the pilot said, jerking a thumb at the National Guardsmen. “They said it’s guarded pretty tight.”

“The smart thing is to stick with what works,” Bill said. “I don’t want to get greedy and try to swallow too much. The idea is to nibble them like mice.”

“That’s great,” the pilot said. “Mice.”

Bill sympathized with the young man. It must be a terrible feeling to be shot down behind enemy lines. He hated the fact that he’d been left behind. Sometimes he just wanted to pack it in and try to walk back to Anchorage. Remembering that hanging corpse wouldn’t let him do that, though.

“Mice can burn down a house by nibbling enough electric wire-lining,” Bill told the pilot.

“And how does that apply to us?” the pilot asked.

“It should be obvious.”

“What should we attack next?” asked the old hunter.

Bill squatted beside the crackling sticks. He held his stiff fingers before the flames. Even the trickle of heat felt wonderful, like hope. How much longer could they do this? He was out of aspirin. He wanted aspirin almost as much he wanted more food. Soon, they would be out of food, too, and their .50 caliber ammo was running low. They had plenty of shotgun shells and .30-06 cartridges. He forced a grin onto his tired face. These men needed hope. The old hunter had been right. They needed the fire.

“I’ve been thinking of a spot,” said Bill, as he dug out a worn map. “We’ll set up the M2s there and wait for a rich target like Robin Hood and his merry men.”

“So now we’re archers?” asked the pilot, squatting beside him and holding out his good hand to the flames. He stared at Bill. “I wish you’d make up your mind. Mice, men wearing tights…I need to get back to our side and see if I can get another fighter.”

Their side, Bill nodded. It would be nice to go home. It would be glorious. But right now, he was David on the run from Saul. This was the hard time when he had to prove himself.

“Build up that fire,” Bill said. “Then let’s get everyone around it. We have some hard planning to do.”

Stan’s tank rattled-clanked-squealed its way along the road as it towed another Abrams. The towing was hard on his tank, but he couldn’t leave this one behind and there was no other way to move it. It gave him three M1A2s, the last of their heavy armor.

Standing in the hatch, Stan could see the line of American soldiers marching wearily from Girdwood. On the other side of the town came flashes of red. A few big guns spoke, slowing the Chinese. General Sims had given the order. This was the last retreat to the forward defenses in Anchorage’s city limits.

It had been a long series of battles since the Junction of Highways One and Nine. Stan was sick of retreating. His eyelids drooped. He yawned. He badly needed sleep. Everyone did. The soldiers marching to Anchorage…even now one stumbled and slumped on the snow. The man didn’t move. No one helped him. Few had the strength to do more than march.

“We’re not going to hold the city with soldiers like that,” said Jose, his head sticking out of the gunner’s hatch.

Stan was too tired to reply. He was sick of retreating and he was sick of seeing men die. He just wanted this to end. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a year, maybe two.

The big guns boomed again, flashes of red. It was all that was holding the enemy back.

For the first time in thirty-four years, Admiral Ling was feeling seasick. He sat at a table in the operations room of his carrier. He could no longer study the detailed map of the Kenai Peninsula. Shoved by the raging sea, the ship tilted violently back and forth.

“We must move the fleet out of this,” Commodore Yen said beside him.

Ling felt his age today. Yen looked worse.

An Arctic storm howled upon his fleet, an ice age blizzard with sleet, hail and near hurricane-force winds. Everyone in here could hear the hail striking outside, and everyone in the operations center felt the monstrous waves heaving the carrier in giant swells.

“What will this do to our drive on Anchorage?” asked Ling. He’d been worrying about this ever since the fleet’s weathermen had told him about the direction of the approaching storm.

“Ships can’t attack in this kind of weather,” said Yen. “I don’t know about soldiers.”

Admiral Ling shook his head. “We’re close to victory. After weeks of fighting and bloodletting, we’re near our objective. Once we have Anchorage and its airport and the surrounding towns—”

“And the Anchorage storage tanks,” said Commodore Yen.

“And those as well,” said Ling, “if the Americans don’t destroy them first.”

“What then, sir? What if the Americans blow those storage tanks as they did in Seward?”

“I am not so troubled by that now. Once we break into Anchorage, we have the victory. Then our superior numbers can finally spread out to attack the Americans all at once and at many different points. Then at the Navy’s leisure, we can sweep the mines from Cook Inlet and ferry our supplies directly into the city. Once we have metropolitan Anchorage, the Chairman will understand that victory is ours. He will release the rest of the fuel tankers.”

Commodore Yen nodded thoughtfully as he studied the OBS.

Admiral Ling did likewise. It had been a bitter fight through the Kenai Peninsula. The battle for Portage had been extremely difficult. Now the naval infantry fought through Girdwood. Afterward would begin the direct assault upon Anchorage, the great and glittering prize of the campaign.

The nine naval infantry brigades used in the invasion—each twice as large as an American brigade—had taken losses to get to this place. However, China had men, far too many men. Ling didn’t like losing so many soldiers, but that wasn’t his great fear. The fuel supply had approached a critical situation. The constant pinprick partisan attacks had made things even worse. The planners should have foreseen that, given the American love affair with guns. According to his charts, the patrols—especially the White Tigers—had killed countless partisans and destroyed vast quantities of civilian weapons. Yet these Alaskans kept popping out of their woods and were always well-armed. It had become so bad that his commanders used combat vehicles to patrol the main supply route of the Highway One. The fuel used in the patrolling vehicles and helicopters had eaten into the campaign’s remaining stocks.

Admiral Ling shook his head. The Kenai Peninsula was mostly mountains and endless trees, making a thousand ambush sites. With everything taken together, his ground forces only had several more days of fuel while operating at full combat capacity. Every ounce of that fuel needed to get to the front so the ground commanders could keep the pressure on the battered Americans and smash through to Anchorage. Even if the Americans blew the vast storage complexes, the naval soldiers could use the airport and receive fuel via air-tankers, maybe even straight from China.

The ground commanders at the front kept reporting that victory was in their grasp. Their battle-weary soldiers saw Anchorage now. The soldiers saw the fantastic mountains beyond and realized in this amphitheater there was a chance to regroup and redeploy. Once the city was in their grasp, every soldier realized that China could pour Army formations into Alaska, making it impossible for the Americans to think of ever trying to drive them out. The seen prize urged on the tired brigades and their soldiers. All the expended sweat, tears and blood would have meaning with the conclusion of this final push that would give them victory.

Tall Commodore Yen studied the OBS beside Ling. Yen stirred, adjusting his uniform as if he was before yet another TV camera. The man acted as if the political officers were recording every one of his actions and pronouncements for review. “The heart of the storm will hit our formations. Will that hurt our chances for victory?”

Another pang of worry filled Ling. To have come so far—they could not fail now. It was inconceivable. He shook his head. “Whatever this storm does to our soldiers, it will also do to the enemy.”

“If it halts the fighting, it will give the Americans time to rest. You’ve read the reports, sir. Some of our soldiers have stormed the latest trenches and found every American fast asleep. The enemy desperately needs a respite, and now it looks as if this storm will give it to them.”

With his single hand, Admiral Ling rubbed his forehead. For weeks, his ground commanders had used meat-grinder tactics to pulverize the Americans, exchanging gallons of Chinese blood for American blood. Now a thin crust of Americans kept him out of Anchorage. The Americans fed the fight by airlifting reinforcements to Fairbanks and sending the troops by rail to Anchorage. Yet his naval infantry needed rest, too. The Chinese brigades had relentlessly flung themselves against the scrambling Americans. If it wasn’t for the bad fuel situation….

“We will move the fleet,” said Ling. “Our ships can’t take much more of this pounding, and we’re only at the fringe of the storm. Before the storm descends on our ground forces and afterward, we will send every fuel truck to the front for a final push. Radio the ground commanders. Tell them to attack and to maneuver for the best advantage. I can feel the victory, Commodore. Tell them that after they have done all these things, that they are to smash through to the city no matter the cost in men and vehicles. One more push, and we win. We cannot fail now.”

“It will be as you say, Admiral,” said Commodore Yen, as he signaled the communications officers. “Our coming victory will add to the greater glory of China.”

An Arctic whiteout blanketed Anchorage. It covered everything in South Central Alaska, including the Kenai Peninsula. A red-eyed and exhausted Stan Higgins stood in the National Guard armory with his gunner Jose.

Outside, hail, sleet and snow battered the armory. It was one of the worst storms Stan had ever witnessed. It had brought everything in the city and at the nearby front to a standstill as temperatures plunged fifty degrees below freezing.

“Can you imagine what it’s like out there?” asked Stan. He meant for the enemy, for the Chinese who kept coming and never gave up.

Jose seemed to creak as he turned bloodshot eyes on him. The green scarf wound tightly around Jose’s neck had become singed at the ends. That had happened outside Portage when the gun-breach had become hot from endless firing.

Stan felt a squeeze around his heart as looked into his friend’s eyes. They were haunted, with a faraway gaze. It was as if Jose had vacated the premises for a time, finding real life too much to handle.

It had only been several weeks ago that the HETS had hauled their Abrams out of the armory. Since reaching Cooper Landing, they’d been fighting almost non-stop. Now they were back where they’d started, but missing most of the company. Three battered Abrams had returned. Once, there had been ten. Two of the tanks could still run on their own power, but just barely. The third M1A2 had been towed back. Stan could remember countless company barbecues and the bowling leagues. Most of those men were now dead. A few were badly mutilated and in the Army hospital. During the retreat, Stan had seen hundreds of burning vehicles, helicopters, and hundreds more dead or bloody body-pieces lying in the snow. Most of those who had fought and survived the retreat looked like Jose.

Stan better understood Civil War General Sherman. The man had said, “War is Hell.” In Alaska, it wasn’t a biblical Hell, but a Viking Niflheim of ice, snow and shrieking storms.

Thinking of storms, of the hail pounding the armory, Stan stirred and managed a bitter smile. He clapped Jose on the shoulder. “Do you hear that out there?”

Slowly, awareness returned to Jose’s eyes. He nodded.

“The storm is our ally,” said Stan. “No one can move and certainly no one can fight in that. You go get some sleep. You look terrible.”

Jose’s mouth creaked open as he muttered, “First, I must help with the tanks. I must make sure they’re ready for tomorrow.”

Stan stifled a yawn. He was so tired, just deep down achy. Yet he nodded. He’d help with the tanks, too. His dead friends, his living ones, his wife and his dad—

One of the armory’s barn-sized doors creaked open. Snow howled in, and a freezing wind whistled through the armory so Stan shivered. He hated this ultra cold for days on end. He’d never known he could hate and loathe something so badly. There had been too many days in the snow fighting under horrible conditions. Several of his toes had turned blue, and it had been agonizing reheating them back into life. If they’d turned black, a surgeon would have amputated them. A lot of Alaskans—too many of them Militiamen—had lost fingers, toes, noses and ears during this winter war. Deep in his mind, Stan could still hear the screams of the dying. The exploding shells, the hammering machine guns….

A big truck roared and slowly entered the armory as snow swirled around it. Behind the truck on a towline came a battered Stryker. Once the two vehicles were inside, men jumped out of the truck and closed the big door. The icy cold no longer swirled everywhere, but it hammered and pelted for admittance.

The men from the truck moved toward Stan. They were tired-looking mechanics with grease on their parkas, particularly their sleeves.

“You guys ready?” one of the grease monkeys asked. He was a young man with a week’s growth of whispers.

Stan had to concentrate in order to speak. The weariness in his bones was making his eyelids droop. “I want my tanks ready to go as soon as the storm lets up.”

“That’s our orders, too,” the mechanic said. “We work until we drop.”

Stan nodded. He was just about ready to drop himself. “Let’s start with that tank.”

The mechanic shook his head. “No, not you, Captain. You help us by showing us the worst problems. Then you go and get some sleep. You look like crap.”

“Now see here—”

“No,” said another man, climbing out of the Stryker.

Stan had to blink several times. He knew the man. It was Brigadier General Hector Ramos.

“You see here, Captain,” said Ramos. The general had black and blue circles around his eyes, but there was still a strange brightness to them. “You’re being attached to what’s left of the 1st Stryker Brigade. It isn’t much, either. I lost my 105s somewhere and I’ve heard we’re almost out of TOW2s. My men are exhausted. I can see by your face that you are, too. This storm won’t last forever. When it’s done, I want you well rested and eager to go. Your tanks are going to be the heart of what’s left of my brigade.”

Stan wasn’t sure he liked hearing that. It sounded too much like what Major Williams had once said outside of Cooper Landing. And that hadn’t ended so well. Stan frowned as he summoned his remaining energy.

“I’m glad to see you’re still among the living, General.”

“Me, too, Professor. I’d like to chat, but I have too much to do. We’re getting a respite with this storm, but no more than that. When it’s done, we’re going to slug it out with a million Chinese.”

“As many as that?” asked Stan.

“Maybe not quite,” said Ramos, “but it feels like it. No matter how many we kill—and I’ve been killing a lot of them—they just keep coming. Now go on. Go home and sleep in your bed for a change. Then get ready for the fight of your life.”

Stan stared at the small general. He had questions for the man. Instead of asking any, though, he yawned. Before he slumped over, he needed to show the mechanics things about the three Abrams.

“All right,” he told the chief mechanic. “If you’ll step over here, I’ll show you the first problem….”