Invasion: Alaska

-17- The Last Push

The terrible ice age storm that had howled down from the Arctic Circle and halted all movement on the Southern Front was beginning to die a slow death. The insane shrieks no longer whispered in First Rank Lu Po’s ears. He could think again, even though it was dreadfully cold outside the cabin that he and his White Tigers had huddled in during the blizzard.

Lu opened the front door and stepped outside into a frozen wasteland. Ice and snow encrusted the surrounding pines. A thousands branches lay on the virgin snow or were buried under tons of white. The air burned going down his lungs. Each step was a sharp crunch of his boots on the devilish substance. Lu never wanted to see snow again. Once this campaign was over and he took his discharge, he would live in the South Pacific. He would bake in the sunlight and luxuriate in warmth forever.

“What are you waiting for?” he told the Commandos emerging from the log cabin. “Don’t you want to be heroes?”

The White Tigers wore their white combat suits. After a hot morning breakfast, they cradled their weapons.

“The storm hurt us,” said Lu, “but it will have hurt the partisans even worse.”

“They’re native to this land and will have known what to do,” Wang said.

“Maybe. The key is that they’re not elite soldiers like us. If any of them were caught in the open, they’ll be frozen or half-dead by now. It’s time to finish our chore and teach these hardheaded Americans the price of not knowing when they’re beaten. You heard Command. They want every one of them hanged. All the supplies must get through to the front. The final push is about to begin, and we have to make sure our soldiers have enough ammo and fuel to smash through Anchorage.”

It was a speech, and Lu was more than tired of those. It was time to find and hang these tick-like partisans that were sucking off Chinese strength.

Half a day later, Lu knelt beside a guttered fire. His men had found six frozen bodies nearby. The Americans were stiff like boards. These bastards had been caught in the storm. He could almost pity them. After examining the tracks of the survivors and their direction of travel, he followed until the forward scouts spotted three unburied candy wrappers.

“Someone was careless,” said Wang. “Usually they bury these.”

“How many do you think are left in this band?” asked Lu.

Wang shrugged. “Four to six would be my guess.” He frowned as the tracks disappeared deeper into the woods. “Do we follow the trail?”

“Of course,” said Lu. “We follow their tracks until we find and kill them.”

“I don’t know, Bill,” said Carlos. “This position is awfully exposed.” They were on a pine-covered hill overlooking Highway One. Their tracks led deeper into the shadowed forest.

An exhausted Bill Harris couldn’t feel his feet anymore. He knew they were black with advanced frostbite. Gangrene would set in soon unless they were amputated. He didn’t want to go on living without feet. He knew suicide was wrong from God’s perspective. But this wasn’t suicide. He was fighting for his country.

Bill was tired. His teeth chattered all the time and he wondered if he was beginning to hallucinate. A presence had been with him during the trek here, a light off the corner of his eye. He thought it might have been God, but when he’d turned, nothing had been there. This storm….

“Bill, you okay?” asked Carlos.

“Sure,” Bill whispered. His strength was failing. It was so cold, his feet—

“We’d better think about finding shelter,” Carlos said.

“No,” whispered Bill, with his eyes feeling as if they were burning up. Feebly, he shook his head. The storm…before the storm he’d seen too many corpses dangling from the pines. Those were American men and women, and children, too. The Chinese hanged everyone.

When he’d sat huddled under a lean-to during the blizzard, as ice howled around them, he’d remembered crows pecking at the corpses’ eyes. That had done something to him. He’d focused on that during the ice storm and had started a fire with the old hunter’s lighter. The hunter had died….

“Bill,” said Carlos. “We can’t go on like this.”

“The corpses,” Bill whispered.

“You ought to rest.”

“The corpses,” Bill whispered again. He’d seen more today dangling like frozen icicles. It had filled him with the same anger as when he’d watched the T-66s destroying Stan Higgins’s company of Abrams tanks. That had caused him then to wire grenades to a sticky bomb. He’d charged the Chinese monster. There was something in him that maybe only Stan Higgins knew about. It came upon him after losing game after game. Too much defeat would ignite a fire in him. He couldn’t talk then. He would be too angry, too wound up and driven to win. Then he’d drive for the hoop, making his lay-ups. Then his three-point shots would start swooshing in.

The anger, the fire, after knowing that he was going to lose his dead feet…it had ignited him seeing those frozen bodies dangling from the pines. He’d been a free man all his life. He didn’t plan to play the slave now to some invader, especially not with amputated feet! There were times you had to fight. It was better to fight on your knees than being a slave. But it was best to fight standing while you still had feet.

“That’s what I’m going to do today,” Bill whispered.

“What’s that, Pastor?” asked Carlos.

“Here,” said Bill, indicating the hill. “Here’s where I’m making my stand.”

They were on a hill in the shadows of ice-laden pines. Below was the snow-packed Highway One.

“You take the others and go,” Bill whispered. “Just leave me the M2 and the ammo.”

Carlos stared at him. “If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

“Choppers can get us pretty easy if we’re up here,” the youthful pilot said, adding his opinion as he always did.

“With the M2 Browning….” Bill smiled as he might have after making a winning three-point shot.

“You don’t think we’re going to make it out alive, do you?” asked Carlos.

“I don’t know,” said Bill. His eyes felt hot again. It put splotches before his vision. “I’ve seen a lot of corpses hanging from trees. I figure the Chinese are killing off all the real Americans. I don’t know if I want to be around once those people are gone.”

Carlos nodded thoughtfully. “If we’re going to die, let’s make it worth something, huh?”

“I’m not committing suicide,” Bill said feverishly. “I’m just sick of seeing those corpses. And my feet—I’m going to hit back as hard as I know how.”

“What about your feet?” the pilot asked.

“Nothing,” said Bill. He shouldn’t have said anything about them. It was a mistake.

“Do you hear that?” asked Carlos, his voice muffled by his scarf.

Everyone in the small band listened.

“Those sound like trucks,” the pilot said.

“Go,” whispered Bill. He crouched by his M2 and used his freezing fingers to fumble at the ammo belt, soon racking a bullet into the firing chamber. He looked up at the others. They had intense frowns, those that had pulled down their scarves. “Go,” he said again. “Save yourselves to fight later.”

“Look,” said Carlos, pointing.

They did, including Bill. A snowplow appeared from around a bend. Snow and ice roared from it as it cleared the highway. Behind the snowplow were Chinese Army trucks and ordinary commercial vehicles, including a tanker.

“They must be running out of trucks,” said Carlos, “if they’ve begun stealing ours.”

Bill had a crazy idea. He was so desperately cold. He wanted to see a fire, a real blaze. He forgot about his friends as he tried to judge distances to the tanker.

“What was that?” the pilot asked, turning around toward the pines behind them. Before anyone could answer, assault-rifle fire cut the pilot down. He crumpled onto the snow.

“Ambush!” cried Carlos. He twisted around and raised his rifle, managing to get off three shots. He shot into the trees they had come out of earlier. Then a well-placed round made a hole in his forehead. He slumped to the cold snow beside the pilot.

“The Alamo,” whispered Bill. He ignored the gunshots from the pines, his back to the hidden enemy. He concentrated as he sighted upon the shining tanker with its metal storage unit. The tanker was near the front of the convoy line. Then a bullet smashed through his shoulder blade, pitching him onto the M2. For a moment, he lay in shock.

I’m hit, Bill realized. He’d tossed away the durasteel armor a day before the storm. It had been too heavy to lug around. Now he wished he was still wearing it.

With a groan, Bill dragged himself upright behind the M2 Browning. He grabbed the V-shaped butterfly trigger, swiveled the heavy machine gun, and sighted the tanker. It was far away. That didn’t matter now—he didn’t have any time left to be fancy. He felt lightheaded, but he felt sure he could make the shot, just like a distant three-pointer in basketball. He pressed both thumbs on the buttons and heard the heavy hammering sound.

Tracer rounds hosed out in a line. Bill adjusted as he held his body stiffly. Another bullet slammed into him, but he kept his position and only grunted. His incendiary rounds smoked against the tanker’s metal skin. Then the greatest fireball of his life mushroomed up in an orange roar of flame.

Militia Sergeant Bill Harris’s eyes were shining. Then his head exploded in a rain of blood, brain and skull-bone as a White Tiger dum-dum bullet ended his existence in this world.

Lu Po stared at the dead Americans. Down below, the fuel tanker burned. It had backed-up traffic as explosions still cooked off from other trucks. The snowplow was on its side, the dead driver hanging out of the broken windshield.

“High Command won’t be pleased with this,” said Wang.

“Fools,” said Lu. “Why did they put the tanker so near the snowplow?”

“Maybe they need the fuel up at the front.”

Lu shrugged. It didn’t matter now.

“What about these corpses?” Wang asked, pointing with his rifle at the dead Americans.

“Hang them like the rest and put on the placards,” said Lu. “If we have to kill every one of these Americans before they learn, we’ll do it.”

Wang shook his head. “They’re like rats. They just keep appearing. Don’t they know when they’re beaten?”

Lu had no answer for that as he watched the tanker burn.

Captain Stan Higgins and Brigadier General Ramos trudged through the snow. They struggled through big drifts to a nearby overpass.

The blizzard had left a heavy covering of snow, making it a seeming pristine wonderland. To the far north of the city rose the majestic mountains of the Alaska Range. To the immediate north were the military bases. To the immediate east was the Chugach Foothills, part of the Chugach State Park. It was the third-largest park in America and comprised nearly a half-million acres. Cook Inlet lay to the west, while ten miles from the heart of downtown Anchorage to the south was Potter Marsh.

It was a gray morning, with heavy clouds overhead. The wind whistled, but it didn’t howl or shriek. Bits of snow swirled, but not the whiteout that had brought everything to a standstill for the past few days.

The airport was on the opposite side of the city as the approaching Chinese. The main arteries leaving Anchorage were also across the city from the front line.

Stan’s three Abrams were ready, joining the skeletal remains of Ramos’s 1st Stryker Brigade. The attrition of battle had whittled the brigade down to little more than a company of soldiers and machines. The 4th Airborne Brigade was gone, its dead officers, NCOs and soldiers scattered along Highway One, having made the Chinese pay for each mile they advanced. Ramos had done the same along Highway Nine. Few Alaskan National Guardsmen remained, although a higher percentage of Militia had made it back to the city. They had broken more quickly, running away faster. Some had regrouped, bitter about the war and their seeming lack of courage. Those men were determined to halt the Chinese now. Others cowered somewhere in the city, often hating themselves because of their fear.

During these past weeks, others in Anchorage and around the state had picked up their weapons and reported to the officers in charge of defending the city. A trickle of reinforcements from the bottom states had continued to enter the city from Fairbanks, often leaving for the approaching front. Now that front was just outside the city limits.

Two new laser battalions had set up their heavy equipment at the slowly repaired airport. One of those was a Canadian battalion. The lasers would make any Chinese aircraft and helicopter assaults pay a bitter price if they attempted to fly over the coming battlefield. The surviving American airmen knew all about the Chinese Red Arrow anti-missile rounds, as well as the bigger SAMs the enemy had brought forward with each lunge closer to Anchorage.

Despite the hard weeks of battle, the Chinese still had more numbers. What they lacked was reserves of munitions, fuel and even more soldiers. Worse, they were about to attempt the hardest type of warfare possible: storming a city.

“We’ll make this their Stalingrad,” Ramos told Stan.

The two officers had crawled to an overpass, using special trench telescopes to peer over the earthen lip and study the enemy line beyond.

“Are you sure you have your history right?” Stan asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The Germans almost drove the Russians out of Stalingrad. They were about to win the fight, when the Russians launched their biggest assault yet. The Russians smashed the Rumanians and Italians holding the extended front leading to the city. The Russians thereby encircled and trapped the German army fighting in the city. Where is America’s counter-offensive to save us from the Chinese?”

“Are you saying we can’t win?” Ramos asked.

“No. I’m just not sure I like your analogy.”

Ramos was quiet for a time. Then he glanced at Stan. “Intelligence says the Chinese have four to five times our number in fighting men. It’s probably just a matter of time before they take the city and send for Army formations from mainland China.”

“What does HQ say?” asked Stan. “Have they spotted new Chinese troop convoys crossing the Pacific?”

“Not yet. But it seems inevitable.”

Stan pulled down his trench scope and rolled onto his back. He wiped his mouth with his gloved hand. “We have problems, but so do they.”

“How do you know that?” asked Ramos, who continued to use the scope. The scope had a right angle at the top and was similar in principle to a submarine’s periscope, thus allowing a man to study the enemy without exposing himself to direct fire.

“Military history tells me that,” said Stan. “We just see our problems because we’re so focused on them. Our problems here are big, no doubt about that. But the enemy has his own set of problems. Sometimes it’s just a matter of whose will fails or whose nerves crumble first.”

“My nerves are close to shot,” said Ramos. “We don’t really have anything that can handle the T-66s. Fortunately, the Chinese don’t seem to have a lot of them, and that’s something. But I’ve read the reports. It seems the Chinese have scoured each battlefield, dragging any wrecked T-66 to the repair vehicles. That’s a serious problem when fighting a rearguard action as we’ve been doing for weeks. We always leave the battlefield in their possession. Their repair vehicles can pick up the broken tanks while we leave ours behind.”

“I’ve been thinking about those T-66s ever since we faced them in Cooper Landing,” Stan said. “I think the answer is obvious. We lure the monsters into the city and try to separate them from their infantry. Then you let my tanks take them on one at a time.”

“The T-66s will crush your Abrams.”

“In time they will,” said Stan. “So we have to make sure we take them out first.”

Ramos lowered his scope. “How can you sound so confident? I don’t get that, Professor.”

Stan shrugged. “It’s simple. If seven tri-turreted tanks come after me, I have to destroy seven tanks. If I destroy six, I lose. So I’ll try to destroy all seven and win.”

“If you’d told me that a few weeks ago, I’d have agreed,” said Ramos. “Now….”

Stan glanced at Ramos. The man still had dark circles around his eyes. The general had fought hard, bitterly hard in Moose Pass and later, but now he was exhausted from the endless battles.

“Have you even been home to sleep?” asked Stan.

“Didn’t have the time. There’s too much to do.”

“You ought to take a little time off this morning. The Chinese won’t attack yet. My guess is they’ll start by pounding us with artillery first. Use that time to recoup. We need you at your best, sir, not filled with morbid doubts.”

Ramos breathed the cold morning air. “Let’s get back to our vehicles. Then I’ll see.”

Admiral Ling spoke to the Chairman via his computer screen in the supercarrier’s ready room. Commodore Yen sat out of sight to the side.

The Chairman appeared angry. Ling was weary and his bones ached this morning.

“I do not understand this delay,” the Chairman was saying. “The Army’s cross-polar taskforce has achieved its first objective: the town of Dead Horse and its accompanying oilfields. With the deep discoveries, it is presently the largest single oilfield in the world. The Navy with its lavish fleet and precision-drilled naval infantry has crawled these past weeks through an American wildness playground. Unlike the cross-polar soldiers, you have modern roads to carry your supplies, near total air superiority and more numbers of trained soldiers than the enemy has. Yet what do I hear? You constantly plead for more ships, more munitions, more soldiers and more fuel, always more, more, more.”

“I am pleased with the northern victory of Chinese arms,” Admiral Ling said. “Yet if I could point out, sir, they had enough fuel to—”

“Don’t speak to me about fuel!” the Chairman said. “A nuclear-tipped torpedo struck the polar taskforce. Snowmobile raiders afterward hit other supply dumps. Percentage-wise, I am told they’ve lost much more of their reserves than you ever had.”

“Sir,” said Ling, “most of our fuel requirements go to the fleet. The land—”

“Why haven’t you protected your tankers better?”

Admiral Ling hesitated. This was an odd situation for the richest oil-nation in the world. Because of Siberia, Chinese oil refineries brimmed with petrochemicals: diesel, kerosene and gasoline. What the Navy lacked was enough transport tankers to bring those fuels across thousands of kilometers of ocean to the battlefield. The Chinese merchant marine was too small and until only a few years ago, the Navy had never been designed as a blue-water fleet. As it was, the supply line had been stretched. Then the Americans had continually destroyed tankers, zeroing in on them with ruthless efficiency. That had created real difficulties. The torturous land route through the Kenai Peninsula only added to the supply nightmare.

“I have tried to protect our tankers, sir,” Ling told the Chairman. “The Americans are cunning, however. They have attacked our fuel transports, preferring to destroy them to carriers. Through espionage, CIA spies must have learned about our fuel troubles.”

“I hope you are not accusing anyone, Admiral.”

“Sir?” asked Ling, wondering what the Chairman was driving at.

The old man in the wheelchair leaned forward, staring at Ling through the screen. “My nephew has spoken to me.”

The Vice-Admiral, Ling thought to himself. Nepotism has crippled the war effort. I should have never agreed to this command while saddled with his fool of a nephew.

“My nephew has informed me that you gave him the toughest route and yet you withheld the needed soldiers,” the Chairman said.

“Sir, I must object. It is your nephew’s incompetence that has cost us dearly.”

“What are you saying?” the Chairman asked ominously.

Commodore Yen shook his head, but the bile in Ling from the Vice-Admiral’s blunders welled up in a rush.

“Your nephew first lost all his helicopters trying to storm Seward,” Ling said. “Next, his drive up Moose Pass has become a study in wasteful frontal charges. I could use those dead soldiers now as we attempt to grind down the remaining Americans. Then his bungling charge through the Junction that entangled our troops at the precise moment I—”

“I have heard enough,” the Chairman said. “This slander mars your reputation. You will not grind the enemy. That is not how you win. You must shock him, bewilder him by the power of your assault. Storm Anchorage with Chinese fury as General Nung took Dead Horse. Then I shall send you Army reinforcements.”

“I would rather that you send me fuel first, sir.”

“Bah!” the Chairman said. “My nephew has assured me he could take Anchorage like that.” The old man snapped his fingers.

Admiral Ling’s eyes bulged. He opened his mouth.

“Sir,” whispered an obviously worried Commodore Yen.

Admiral Ling turned to his friend and advisor, noticing the worry on Yen’s face. Ling closed his mouth, even as a vein on the side of his head pulsed with shame.

“Is there someone else with you in the room?” asked the Chairman.

Admiral Ling spoke in a mumble. “I shall take Anchorage, sir. I shall give China another glorious victory, another superlative feat of arms as I achieved in Taiwan.”

“…do you promise this?” asked the Chairman.

“It is already done,” said Ling, his humiliation turning to anger. Yet he was still practiced enough to contain his words. For the sake of his family in China, he must attempt to please this man in the wheelchair.

“Take Anchorage and all your sins will be forgiven,” the Chairman was saying.

“Yes, sir,” said Ling.

“Fail in your appointed task—”

“I have already said it is done, sir.”

Instead of anger at being interrupted, a slow smile spread across the Chairman’s face. “So you have, Admiral. So you have.”

In an instant, the screen blanked out.

Admiral Ling bowed his head. This was inexcusable. How could the Chairman speak to him this way? After all that he had done for China and done for the Chairman—no. This was unbearable, an insult. He turned to Commodore Yen. “That creature the Vice-Admiral….” Ling’s humiliation was too much now for speech.

“Sir,” Yen said, “You have given your word concerning Anchorage. How can you be so certain you can conquer the Americans?”

Admiral Ling ignored him. He adjusted his computer screen as he studied the situation. He kept noticing the huge fuel depots in Anchorage. The Americans had blown the Seward depot, but the ones here were different. These supplied the Americans. Therefore, the enemy could not afford to blow them. If he could capture the depots, it would solve his fuel problem.

Ling began to nod. He brought up battle charts and force readiness numbers. “I am beginning to see the way,” he said.

“Sir?” Yen asked.

“The Chairman has shown me the way. We must storm Anchorage before the Americans rush more reinforcements into the city. Our soldiers rested during the storm. We will now rush forward more supplies as our soldiers use speed, violence and fury to capture the Anchorage fuel depots.”

“They are on the other side of the city, sir,” Yen said.

“With the T-66s we shall smash through everything the Americans put in our way,” Ling said. “Call the ground commanders. I have new orders to give them.”

“May I suggest you first wait an hour, sir?” a worried-sounding Yen asked. “You have…endured hard words today. Maybe it is time for reflection first and action soon thereafter.”

Ling looked up and stared at the careful Commodore. “No, you may not suggest such a thing. What you may do is obey my orders.”

Yen’s neck stiffened. After a moment, he stood and saluted. “It shall be as you say, sir.”

Some time later, Ling read a brief report from his chief ground commander. The Chinese infantry officers outside Anchorage had received their orders as the last of the supplies at the front were divided up. More ammo and food came to the front at a trickle, as the majority of Highway One was still clogged with snow and ice. The officers returned to their sub-commanders, who in turn explained the attack orders to the junior officers. The junior officers spoke to the NCOs. Those gruff men told their soldiers how tomorrow they were going to bring glory to Greater China, win the campaign and the right for each of them to screw the girl of their choice once they returned home as heroes.

Deep underground in his bunker under Mao Square, the Chairman spoke with Jian Hong.

“Did you listen to our conversation earlier?” the Chairman asked.

Jian nodded. He’d been ordered to listen. Didn’t the Chairman remember?

“That is how you light a fire under an ancient warrior,” the Chairman said. “Niu Ling conquered Taiwan for me. Now he will give me the rest of Alaska.”

“May I ask you a delicate question, sir?”

“You have given me the oilfields, Jian. You may ask me anything.”

“Did your nephew really say those things, sir?”

Some of the Chairman’s mirth evaporated as he stared at Jian.

I shouldn’t have asked that, Jian told himself. How could I have been so stupid?

“Yes,” the Chairman finally told him, “my nephew said those things.”

“Given that is true, sir, shouldn’t we place your nephew in charge of operations?” There, that ought to satisfy his touchiness.

“Don’t be absurd,” the Chairman said. “Now go,” he said, waving a feeble hand. “I’m tired. We shall talk tomorrow.”

A steel door swished up, and two Lion Guards looked in, giving Jian a hard stare.

Jian wanted to gush his apologies. He was still surprised about General Nung and his victory at Dead Horse. That victory—the other Ruling Committee members now gave Jian greater respect because of it. He knew, however, that the Chairman loved results, not weak words like “sorry” or “I shall do better.” By his response, the Chairman had shown himself sensitive about his family, particularly his inept nephew the Vice-Admiral. Jian would remember that.

“Good day to you, sir.” Jian said. “To victory in Anchorage!”

The irritated Chairman waved him away. The interview was over.

Anna Chen rubbed her eyes as she sat at her desk. She was exhausted from too much work and a growing sense of guilt for what she had unleashed.

She’d moved out of her West Wing cubicle and no longer worked for the Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor. She no longer worked for Colin Green at all. Instead, she had her own West Wing office as the new Chinese Affairs Advisor to the President. She had a three-person staff and direct access to the President. During the continuing crisis, Clark spoke to her an average of three times a day, and that didn’t include the meetings.

Her guilt concerned the nuclear attack in the pristine Arctic environment. Now there had been a second attack. She dreaded the Chairman’s response.

It surprised her Clark hadn’t told her about the latest nuclear attack. She’d learned about it through Alfredo Diaz. He’d given her another memory stick, the information only hours old.

Anna clicked a button, replaying the information on her computer. A dark image leaped onto the screen. She was viewing this through the shoulder-cam of a 1st SFG A-Detachment master sergeant. By the shot, the Green Berets soldier must be laying on the pack ice. There were lights in the distance: a vast Chinese supply dump.

“It’s their main base,” the master sergeant whispered, likely into a microphone. “I count thirty snowtanks leaving it.”

Anna listened carefully, studying nuances this time.

“Give us the targeting coordinates.” The voice belonged to the USS Mississippi’s radio operator.

“Hey Sarge!” someone unseen said. Anna assumed it was another Green Berets. “You hear that?”

The scene changed, showing the breathtakingly beautiful night sky with its Northern Lights. The master sergeant must have looked up. Anna heard the unmistakable whomp-whomp of a helicopter.

“They’ve spotted us, Sarge!” A snowmobile started. “Come on! Let’s go!”

“You go,” the master sergeant said. “I’ve still got a job to do.”

Anna wanted to weep as she shook her head. No matter how many times she heard this, she still hoped somehow in her heart that he could escape.

Other snowmobiles whined into life. None of the others tried to argue the master sergeant out of his grim decision. That amazed Anna most of all. The others drove off, the sounds of their engines quickly dwindling.

“That’s it,” the radio operator said after a time. “We have it. Don’t wait around, Sarge.”

Onscreen, Anna witnessed the Chinese lights again, the distant supply dump. That changed as the master sergeant must have looked up. By the sounds, an enemy chopper moved toward him. Then there were sparks in the night. Anna realized now those were Chinese machine guns firing from the helicopter. She heard icy crunching sounds a few seconds later, the bullets striking.

Anna hunched closer, listening carefully.

“Damnit,” the master sergeant said. He must have rolled onto his back. Anna saw the barrel of a weapon appear as it aimed skyward. A second later, the master sergeant grunted, and the scene changed so Anna stared at the ice. In time, his blood trickled into view.

She fast-forwarded. In the distance was the sound of many vehicles.

The Chinese must be fleeing the base.

Suddenly, a nuclear explosion occurred and the video picture shook. It became intensely bright and a shrieking wind began. That wind howled across the pack ice until it stopped abruptly as the video ended.

“It is a terrible thing we do,” a man with a deep voice said.

Startled, Anna looked around. Tanaka, her bodyguard, stood just inside her West Wing office. She’d asked Colin Green to transfer Tanaka to her service.

“You should have knocked,” she said.

Tanaka stepped nearer, his eyes locked onto hers.

Something had changed in Anna so she could accept the way he looked at her. She saw in his eyes that he thought she was beautiful. If she looked closely enough, she could see her reflection in his pupils. Once, having a man look at her like this would have made her shiver in dread. Now, with the things she’d been through….

Anna stood up and approached Tanaka. Then she stepped even closer, putting her arms around him as he hugged her. She lifted her head, her lips pressing against his. Then she opened her mouth, and their tongues touched. Anna shivered, but not in dread. Was this love? She didn’t know. Maybe. Instead of worrying about it, she continued to kiss the iron-muscled Tanaka.

Stan was in the forward lines as dawn came late the next day, as it had been doing for some time.

There was activity on the Chinese line. Then 200mm self-propelled tubes began to fire. It was thunderous. From a drone’s cam, Stan saw a tank-like vehicle with a long artillery tube shake and rock. The enemy used computer-directed fire control, with target acquisition and laser ranging. Most fired high explosive—HE—shells. Others shot HEAT with guidance systems for homing in on bunkers and command posts. Many had proximity fuses for creating an airburst over the trenches. The falling shells hammered Stan’s area. He crouched in a foxhole, covering his head.

Enemy missile-launchers added their rockets. Stan could tell by the sound. The rockets were lower velocity than the shells and therefore had lighter casings, able to add more high explosive per projectile. The missile launchers also saturated an area faster, hitting a place in seconds what would take an equal amount of artillery six minutes to achieve.

It was a sweeping, pounding attack, and it lasted a half hour. Afterward, Chinese shells created dense clouds of smoke between the American defenses and the Chinese. Through experience, Stan knew the clouds would last twenty minutes or more. They would also shield the Chinese from thermal sensors.

By his radio, Stan heard the word from a surviving CP. All across the front, the Chinese naval brigades were moving. Marauder tanks led the charge, with IFVs following behind.

Now an American artillery company began to fire. They had arrived from Texas via air to Fairbanks, and had taken the train to Anchorage. Their gun tubes fired artillery-emplaced minefields. The tubes fired and moved to a new location, hopefully before the Chinese counter-artillery could zero in on them. The Americans rained the selected approaches with mines, both anti- personnel and vehicle.

Stan stood up and checked his assault rifle. He had to get back to his tanks. Big oily clouds of smoke billowed before him.

The Chinese charged against a thin crust of American defense located in the outskirts of the city. By the sounds, some of the attackers moved through the emplaced minefields. Others emerged from the choking smoke, looking unscathed.

At that point, the true battle took place. Remaining National Guardsmen, Militiamen and U.S. Army soldiers fought the battle-hardened naval infantry from the East. The Americans hid behind rocks. They waited in buildings and foxholes. The Chinese crawled across the snow or they raced from rock, shell-hole to shell-hole, to the ruins of a Burger Palace and then to a clump of scarred trees, firing all the time.

Each side had a bewildering array of weapons. Soldiers fired assault rifles, light machine guns, and heavy machine guns, throwing and firing grenades for good measure. The whoosh of recoilless rifles mingled with the sharp retort of exploding mines, often launching the Chinese attackers into the air. The whine of falling trench-mortar rounds, the roar of RPGs, LAWs rockets and the loud slamming noises of ATGMs added to the horror of long, squirting jets of fire hissing from flamethrowers. When the Chinese finally reached American strongpoints, desperate men fired pistols. They stuck enemy soldiers with bayonets. They swung spades whose edges were sharper than axes.

Stan gripped a bloody entrenching tool, having helped clear a trench of attacking Chinese.

Into the tangled mix came helicopters and bombers. Defensive lasers stabbed into the gray sky. Red Arrow shells zoomed upward. Wyvern missiles exploded and the last of the Blowdart tubes expelled their deadly cargos. The caldron of war boiled in Anchorage.

The final battle had begun. The defenders fought for their homes, their mothers, fathers, children and wives. The attackers surely yearned for an end to the icy campaign. Stan knew that many thousands of young Chinese sought marriage permits through the fastest manner possible in China: martial feats of madness. It was war in the worst sense, man killing man, with the fate of a continent resting on the outcome.

Later in the day, the Chinese broke into the city, but the Americans still fought with bitter tenacity. They used the concrete buildings, firing from rooftops and windows. The tactic took a grim toll on the Chinese, until finally the remaining T-66s clanked into battle.

So far, they had been kept in reserve. Now an approach had been cleared to the city and the monstrous, tri-turreted tanks moved in. Previous shells and near-miss rockets throughout the weeks had scarred each. From captured enemy soldiers, American Military Intelligence—and then Stan—had learned that many T-66s had received emergency repairs. An entire Chinese Army regiment had been shipped to Alaska, forty units of the once experimental tank. Like most such tanks, there had been teething problems only discovered in the heat of battle. Weeks of war had brought wear and tear, and that had caused many mechanical breakdowns. Day and night, the mechanics had slaved in order to fix the problems.

It was late in the campaign and after a grim arctic storm. Now, fifteen of the big tanks clanked to add their weight to the Chinese assault. That fifteen came was a testament to Chinese technological effort and hard work.

Fifteen monster tanks used together in close coordination began to blow apart the concrete buildings. American ATGMs scored hits, but no kills. Any Army Rangers trying to crawl near with land mines received a hail of gunfire. The Chinese moved deeper into the city.

“Are you ready?” Major Philips asked Stan.

During one of the lulls, Stan had made it back to his tanks. Now, several blocks ahead, the fighting was intense. Back here in the financial district, Stan’s three Abrams waited beside five smaller Strykers. Three of the Strykers were armed with grenade launchers. The last two had TOW2 ATGMs.

Stan had expected to work with Ramos, but Philips had informed him the brigadier general was presently engaged elsewhere.

Stan hated the T-66s, but he had tasted greater victory against them than anyone else in Alaska still living. “I don’t know about ready,” he said, “but I’ll fight.”

“You won’t fight alone,” a man said.

Stan turned, and he blinked in surprise. It was Sergeant Jackson of the Anchorage Police Department. The police officer wore durasteel body-armor with a combat helmet. An assault rifle was slung on his shoulder.

“What’s going on?” asked Stan. “What are you doing here?”

“The same thing as you,” Jackson said. “I’m fighting for my home.”

“The police are trained at riot control,” Philips said. “It means they’re trained in group action. That should make them better at this than just a group of Alaskans picking up their hunting rifles and taking potshots at the enemy.”

“I know you and I have had our differences,” Jackson said. “That’s over now. We let your dad go along with others. He immediately volunteered.”

“Volunteered for what?” Stan asked.

“It was Ramos’s idea,” Philips said. “He spoke last night with General Sims. Afterward, Ramos asked for volunteers among his surviving crews and Militiamen. There weren’t enough. So he went to the jail looking for others. The brigadier general is taking a makeshift ferry and crossing over to Hope.”

“Why do that?” asked Stan.

“Both Sims and Ramos agreed that a behind-the-lines raid might hurt the enemy supply situation enough to slow him down,” Philips said. “At this point, anything is worth a try. I also think Ramos went because he hates city fighting and much prefers to maneuver against the enemy.”

“Tell me about my dad,” Stan said.

“Sims learned about a huge supply convoy crawling up Highway One,” Philips said. “Our jets won’t be able to fight through the Chinese combat air patrols to get to it. Ramos believes that we can still hit them guerilla-style. Since it was his idea and it’s his specialty, he felt obligated to lead the attack.”

“My dad went with them on this one-way mission?” asked Stan.

“He didn’t have to go,” Jackson said. “We let him out and he was free to go anywhere. He said he wanted to fight.”

Stan thought about that. After a time, he nodded. “That’s my dad,” he said. Mack Higgins was a fighter.

“Okay, Sergeant,” Stan said. “My dad pointed a gun at you once. You could have held that against him. Instead, you let him go. Thanks.” Stan held out his hand. With the Chinese in Anchorage, it was time to bury their differences with each other.

Sergeant Jackson accepted and they shook hands.

“Let’s stop the Chinese,” Stan said.

“I second that,” Jackson said.

“Here’s how we’re going to attempt it,” Philips said.

It took a half hour before Stan’s radio crackled, “Here’s our chance.” It was Philips calling.

“Ready?” Stan asked his crew.

“Roger that,” said Jose from the gunner’s seat.

“Heck yeah!” Hank said, his fingers flexing at the Abrams’s steering controls.

“Let’s do it,” Stan radioed back.

“Head up Lincoln Street,” Philips radioed. “It’s coming fast. The T-66 is chasing several Anchorage PD.”

“Okay, this is it,” Stan told Jose. “We have to get close, almost on its ass,” he told Hank.

“I’ll remember to thank a police officer the next time he writes me a ticket,” Jose said. “I wouldn’t want a T-66 on my butt.”

Stan shoved up out of the hatch. He had his commander’s microphone jutting in front of his mouth. He wore durasteel body-armor, and he listened to the Abrams’s heavy clank as the tank moved into position. City buildings rose all around them. The M1A2s were great tanks—twenty years ago. Now the T-66 held the technological edge, and it was coming up Lincoln Street toward them.

Through his microphone, Stan shouted orders to the other two Abrams as they took up ambush positions nearby. Farther behind on the street, Philips’s Strykers waited to act as further bait if needed.

Then three police officers in combat gear sprinted around the corner. Stan was close enough to wave to Sergeant Jackson. The officer clutched his assault rifle as total concentration filled his face. Behind him—Stan heard heavy treads crushing pavement. Then the side of an old brick building exploded masonry. A monster tank burst into sight.

“Inch us back,” whispered Stan.

Hank did, moving the Abrams behind a building and taking the T-66 out of sight.

What happened next was hidden from Stan as he waited. Chinese machine guns chattered. A man shouted in English, no doubt an Anchorage police officer. Then a TOW missile streaked up the street. By the sound, it splashed against the T-66’s heavy armor.

“Come on,” Stan whispered. “Keep attacking.”

Then he heard the enemy tank. It fired two 175mm guns. They were two deafening booms. The shells whooshed past his ambush site and down the street at the Strykers.

At the Stryker bait, Stan thought. He didn’t hear the sound of exploding vehicles. So maybe Philips’s bait had moved quickly enough to survive.

“It’s coming,” Stan heard Philips say through his headset.

“Get ready!” Stan shouted through the hatch.

Seconds later, a huge stone gray-colored Chinese T-66 moved in front of them. Stan slid down the hatch and slammed the steel lid into place. At the same moment, Jose fired a Sabot round. A terrific explosion rocked the Abrams.

“Are we hit?” Stan shouted, his ears ringing from the sound.

“I don’t think so,” said Jose.

Stan thrust his forehead against his scope. He peered at a burning T-66.

“You killed this one from point blank range,” Philips said over the radio. “But there’s another two coming, so you’d better move. We don’t want to lose your Abrams just yet.”

“Let’s go,” Stan told Hank. “We’re moving to live again and fight in another place.”

“Roger that,” said Hank, as he began revving the M1A2’s engine.

“Major Philips,” Stan said over the radio.

“Yes?”

“Tell Sergeant Jackson and his fellow police officers that they did good, very good.”

“Will do,” Philips said. “Now let’s get moving to the next ambush site.”

Under Ramos’s command, a few Army soldiers and Alaska Militiamen—along with hard-case state prisoners—took a ferry and crossed the trickery Turnagain Arm of the Cook Inlet. In jeeps, snowmobiles and four-wheel drive pickups they overwhelmed the few Chinese soldiers in Hope. Then they moved down Highway One to the Junction of Highway Nine and Moose Pass. There they met the lead elements, including snowplows, of the giant Chinese supply convoy heading for Anchorage.

“Where do they come from?” shouted Wang.

First Rank Lu Po lay in the snow beside his friend. Behind them, trucks and transports burned. Chinese helicopters were on their way. On the hill before them, American Javelins continued to flash across the distance and hit yet more munitions trucks, causing tremendous explosions.

“We earn our glory now,” Lu told his White Tigers in their combat suits.

“There’s no more glory here,” said Wang. “High Command will skin us for allowing the supply convoy’s destruction.”

“Nonsense,” said Lu. “The Americans hit part of the convoy, not all. We must give them enemy heads or High Command will demand ours. We will fade into the trees and flank the hill.”’

“By that time the convoy will be destroyed,” said Wang.

“Follow me,” said Lu, as he rose in a bent crouch and sprinted for the trees.

Brigadier General Ramos heard the Chinese bombers. He leaped off the altered pickup truck and sprinted for the trees.

The truck was called a technical. The term had been derived in Somalia during the 1990s when certain non-governmental agencies had paid gunmen to protect them, paid out of a technical assistance grant. The chief fighting vehicles were modified Toyota pickups, and soon the word technical came to be applied to any machine gun-carrying truck. Such technicals had been used to great effect by the nomads of Chad when they’d fought the Libyans. The Libyans had used Soviet tanks and hardware. The Chad militiamen primarily used Toyota pickups with an M2 Browning, a recoilless rifle, or a light anti-air gun bolted on. In the Sahara Desert, the light trucks, with their greater mobility, had given the Chad militiamen the victory. That victory had caused many to dub the fight the Great Toyota War.

Today, Hector Ramos’s hastily-gathered technicals had hurt the enemy. Now Chinese jets streaked above. Small canisters tumbled from them. Ramos buried his head in the snow as the canisters hit and whooshed with jellied napalm. Heat blazed against his skin. The canisters had missed the center part of their team.

Ramos began to rise when he heard a noise behind him. He shouted, scrambled to his feet and cut down several Chinese soldiers with his assault rifle. They’d been about to kill an old man.

“Are you Colonel Higgins?” Ramos shouted.

The old man blinked at him. Finally, he nodded.

“Follow me!’ shouted Ramos. “We have more enemy to kill.”

“Aliens,” the old man said.

“Right!” shouted Ramos. “They’re alien invaders.”

The two men sprinted to a pickup. The front windshield had been blown away, the glass killing the passengers. Ramos and Mick Higgins dragged the corpses out.

“I’ll drive,” said Ramos.

Mack grunted as he climbed into the pickup bed. Below were burning Chinese vehicles. To the side of the hill—

“Over there!” shouted Mack. “I see aliens in the trees.”

“Those are White Tiger Commandos,” Ramos said. He started the pickup, revved it and shouted, “Are you ready?”

“Go!” Mack shouted.

Ramos floored the accelerator and cranked the steering wheel. Then the pickup climbed the side of the hill as he aimed the vehicle at the White Tigers.

First Rank Lu Po lay in the snow. He took aim, firing at the crazy Americans in the pickup. An old man stood in back. The man had wild hair and he was laughing, swinging the heavy machine gun from side-to-side.

Beside Lu, Wang coughed blood and died.

“You shall suffer because of that,” Lu said. Before he could align his shot perfectly, three .50 caliber bullets smashed into him. They tore his body, instantly killing the hero of the San Francisco carrier attack.

“We did it,” Ramos said several minutes later.

The road below burned with Chinese trucks and commandeered vehicles. There were more vehicles and more Chinese soldiers coming, but this raid should hurt the other side, maybe enough to affect the present battle for Anchorage.

Then a Chinese attack helicopter rose into sight above the trees.

Directly behind him, Ramos heard the loud, chugging noise of the .50 caliber machine gun. Instead of diving into the snow and trying to escape, Mack Higgins tried to destroy the chopper.

A missile flashed from the helicopter’s wing.

“Ave Maria,” Ramos said, as he watched the missile streak at him. Then their technical exploded, and the two men died.

Paul Kavanagh waited with Red Cloud in a gully on Cross Island. Before them was a wide expanse of pack ice. Behind were low mounds of frozen tundra, with deceptive dips and gullies everywhere. A cold wind blew, although Paul was immune to its bite just now. Particles of snow blew like sand across the desolate ice. It hurt visibility, but it was nothing like a whiteout. Cross Island, along with several other small pieces of rock and tundra, guarded the approach to Dead Horse.

A Marine lieutenant had found them and the other American who had survived the hovertank pack-ice attack. The lieutenant had slipped out of Dead Horse with five hard-bitten Marines. He had rendezvoused with the last two helicopters. Instead of flying away, the lieutenant had landed on the ice, giving Kavanagh and the others badly needed supplies. Then he’d recharged their fighting suits. Afterward, the lieutenant had sent one of the choppers north, hunting for the enemy. It had never returned. Before its destruction, however, the helicopter crew had radioed the lieutenant information. They’d found a battle-group of snowtanks heading for Dead Horse. The enemy advance would take them to Cross Island. Likely, the Chinese commander wanted to reach tundra as soon as possible so he could get off the ice, even if for a little while.

“I know this is a risk,” the lieutenant told Paul two hours ago. “But this is critical. The Chinese hold Dead Horse, but not in strength. The approaching snowtanks would triple Chinese combat power there. So I think we should hit them now and keep them from joining.”

Paul glanced at Red Cloud before he told the lieutenant, “Captain Bullard said he’d give me a link to California once this was over.”

“Bullard’s dead, but I’ll see what I can do. Just give me a few more days. I know this is your specialty. The Corps needs you.”

That’s how Paul had let himself be talked into this desperate plan. Crazy. They were just a handful of weary men—less than fifty against thirty snowtanks, accompanying infantry on sled-carriers and supply caterpillars. Neither side appeared to have air, other than the lieutenant’s remaining helicopter. Paul and his men did have these Arctic fighting suits, and fully-charged again.

“I see something,” Red Cloud said. As he lay on his stomach, the Algonquin used a thermal tracker. “It’s the Chinese.”

Paul slid to the M220 Launcher. They had taken it off the sled and set it up here in the gully.

“Wait,” Red Cloud said. “They’re stopping and they’re still out of range.”

“What are they thinking?” Paul asked.

“Nothing good,” Red Cloud said.

More than ever, Paul wanted to crawl to the helicopter and fly out of the Arctic Circle. He wanted to see sunlight again. The Marine lieutenant thirsted for revenge, however. All he could think about was killing Chinese. With two helicopters, they could have been ferrying the survivors to somewhere on the coast. Instead, Paul found himself laying in the Arctic darkness in a gully, facing thirty snowtanks with infantry support. He hated these odds.

“Come on you bastards,” he said. “What are you waiting for?”

His fingers itched as he touched the TOW launcher’s firing mechanism. The Arctic night was a lonely world. Murphy must have been lonely those last hours lying in a cold snowcat. Paul still couldn’t understand why the Chinese had to gun-down oilmen working a rig. That had been murder.

“What are they waiting for?” Paul asked.

“We will find out soon enough,” Red Cloud said.

Lieutenant-General Bai was in charge of the Chinese taskforce stopped on the ice. He had fled from the main base on the pack ice four hundred kilometers north of Alaska. That base had vanished in a mushroom cloud of radioactive destruction. The Americans had used another nuclear-tipped torpedo.

Bai had fled in a tracked sled, much like a giant snowmobile. He had coolly considered his options. If he returned to Siberia, he would no doubt take the blame for the base’s destruction. He had been the officer-in-charge. He should have defended the base better. He considered General Nung, who had fought his way into Dead Horse. The general had little logistical ability, yet Nung had consistently advanced in rank. It was then that Bai knew what he would do. He’d gather the survivors of the nuclear attack and join the thirty snowtanks heading for Dead Horse. He would re-supply General Nung. Perhaps the brash general could produce another miracle. Nung had done so before. Yet in order to produce a miracle, Nung needed more troops. These troops Bai brought him.

“We are awaiting your orders, sir,” the officer in charge of the snowtanks radioed him.

In his command sled, Bai fretted. He was a logistics officer, not a combat fighter. There were American soldiers on the island. The soldiers could spot for another submarine. On all accounts, Bai knew he must get his troops onto dry land and off the pack ice. After seeing the mushroom cloud expand in the Arctic darkness, Bai had come to dread the possibility of a third nuclear-tipped torpedo.

“Sir?” radioed the commander of the snowtanks. “It is inadvisable to just sit here and wait.”

Bai knew that a bad order given strongly was better than dithering back and forth. “Dismount the infantry,” he said. “They will clear the way for your tanks.”

“Yes, sir!” the snowtank officer said.

Bai nodded to himself. The snowtanks had to crawl over the ice. Their weight was too great for them to move at speed. If they did, the tanks would create violent wave-action under the ice. If the waves moved too violently, they would crack the ice and the tanks would fall into the freezing water. That limitation had been one of the debilitating factors of the trek from Siberia to Alaska. Once the snowtanks reached the tundra, however, they would easily be the most powerful vehicle in this nightmare land.

I hope I have made the correct decision, Bai thought. I must give General Nung the means so he can achieve another battlefield miracle.

“You know what this is?” Paul asked.

“Tell me,” Red Cloud said.

“A Chinese wave assault.”

Paul and Red Cloud lay in their gully, both men using binoculars to scan the pack ice. On it approached more than three hundred Chinese soldiers. They were spread out on the ice, with weapons ready. Behind them followed more Chinese soldiers.

“They mean to storm our island,” Red Cloud said.

Paul cradled a grenade launcher. It had advantages over a heavy machine gun. The biggest was that firing it wouldn’t give away their position. The enemy was still much too far out of range.

“We need some mortars,” Paul said.

“The lieutenant has the mines.”

They had been busy two hours ago, placing mines in the ice.

“Look there,” Red Cloud said, pointing to the left.

Paul turned his binoculars to where Red Cloud pointed. Snowtanks circled the island. His stomach curdled. The Chinese were trying to trap them by flanking around.

Paul’s headphones in his helmet crackled. “We have to do something now!” a man shouted.

“We will,” Paul said. “We’ll do one thing at a time. The trick now is to kill Chinese.”

“Roger that,” the lieutenant said over the radio. “We let them bastards get close. Then I’ll trigger the mines.”

“What about the tanks circling us?” a man asked.

“One thing at a time, like Kavanagh says,” the lieutenant answered. “So don’t crap your pants. Just get ready.”

“Yeah,” Paul whispered to himself. He gripped his grenade launcher and lay on the cold soil, watching the three hundred Chinese soldiers. Particles of snow like sand drifted across the ice, mingling with the mass of Chinese.

They waited another twelve minutes. By that time, Paul didn’t need binoculars. He could make out the red stars on the helmets of the approaching Chinese. The walking soldiers had drifted into squads. There were about forty Chinese moving directly toward him. A second wave followed in the distance.

“Get ready,” the lieutenant said over the radio. “…now,” he whispered.

Several seconds passed. Then loud explosions occurred on the ice. The fiery blasts of the mines sent Chinese soldiers flying, those of the second wave. The mines took a frightful toll. The explosions caused many of the first wave to turn around.

“Here we go,” Paul said. He aimed the grenade launcher and fired. The round was magnetically ejected, and it flew as a dark object. It landed between the nearest Chinese and exploded.

“We need the tanks!” an infantry commander shouted over the radio to Bai. Bai was still in the command vehicle, with the majority of the snowtanks in his vicinity.

During the infantry advance, the snowtanks had crawled forward, staying outside of TOW2 missile range.

“Our soldiers are exposed out on the ice,” the tank commander radioed Bai.

Bai clutched the receiver. If the tanks moved too fast, they would create wave-action under the ice. But it was a short hop now to the island. General Nung would order the tanks to charge. Some might fall into the freezing water, but most would make it to land.

“Attack,” Bai said.

“Sir?” asked the tank commander.

“You are to charge the island. Help the infantry kill the Americans.”

“We must retreat inland,” Paul said as he ducked down into the gully.

Enemy bullets caused frozen tundra to spit into the air. The surviving Chinese infantry on their part of the battlefield had spotted them. The enemy soldiers lay on the ice and fired light machine guns.

“The snowtanks are coming,” the Marine lieutenant said over the radio.

Paul glanced at their TOW2 launcher. There was no way they could fire it now. Chinese infantry had gotten near enough to lay down suppressing fire. It would be suicide to try to do now what they’d done to the hovertanks days earlier.

“Leave the TOW,” Red Cloud said. “Take the LAWS rocket.”

The LAWS rocket was old. It fired a shape-charged round. It was a one-shot disposable tube. They had two LAWS.

Paul didn’t argue. He crawled along the bottom of the gully. Behind him, Red Cloud followed. It was too bad they hadn’t placed the TOW elsewhere along the gully. But they couldn’t think of everything in advance. At least the mines had worked.

Soon, Paul stood hunched over. He carried the grenade launcher and the LAWS, a strap around each shoulder. Behind, on the ice, snowtanks roared for the island.

Paul and Red Cloud ran up a slope and slid behind it. The snowtanks came from many directions.

“Look,” Red Cloud said.

Paul saw it. A TOW2 missile streaked across the ice. Several seconds later, it hit, and there was one less Chinese tank. More TOWs fired.

“Ha!” the Marine lieutenant shouted over the radio.

“What happened?” radioed Paul.

“The Chinese tanks are moving fast,” the lieutenant informed them. “I just saw the ice open up under one, and it disappeared.”

“It would be good if that happened to all of them,” Red Cloud said.

Paul cursed and slapped a hand on Red Cloud’s shoulder. Then he pointed. Three snowtanks approached the island. No infantry had made it here. Those had been some of the flanking tanks.

Explosive sounds occurred, and on the ice under the first tank appeared a zigzagging crack. The Chinese tanks kept coming.

“Open up,” Paul whispered. “Break apart.”

It didn’t happen. Instead, the three snowtanks made it to Cross Island, leaving the pack ice to clank over tundra. Each snowtank was made up of two separate sections or cabs, linked together by an articulated joint. On the first section was the main tank gun. The second section had heavy machine guns and an ATGM launcher.

“Our luck has run out,” Red Cloud said.

“We’ll have to make our own luck,” Paul said. “Come on, this way.”

They had the combat suits. It muffled their thermal and infrared signatures, and they were white like ghosts. Paul crawled. Red Cloud followed.

The snowtanks clanked up the slope and then turned toward the Chinese infantry. The two teams were likely going to link up. Tanks with infantry support would be almost impossible to kill on the island with the weapons they had.

“This is it,” Paul said. He got up, and he ran down-slope toward the three tanks. Red Cloud followed.

The clanking-rattle sound of the snowtanks was ominous. The hovers were the king of the ice. The snowtanks would rule on the tundra. If they reached Dead Horse….

Paul threw himself onto his belly, and he flipped up the sights on his LAWS. “This is for you, Murphy.” Paul squeezed the trigger.

A second later, the LAWS whooshed, and the shape-charged round sped at a tank. It hit the front section and exploded. There was a loud squeal, and the tank stopped.

Paul crawled like mad. He slid into a gully just as the tank’s machine guns opened up at him.

“Are you ready?” Paul asked.

“Roger,” Red Cloud said, who had stayed behind.

Paul got up and ran in a crouch.

“There’s two on your tail,” Red Cloud radioed.

Paul sprinted with everything he had. It felt like his football days. A tank appeared at the top of the slope behind him. Paul dove and rolled behind an outcropping of soil. At the same moment, a kneeling Red Cloud fired his LAWS, and it scored a hit, stopping the enemy tank.

Paul thrust himself up, and he kept moving inland toward the center of the island. His suit cooled his sweat. That helped. He sucked on a water tube. That helped more. His side began to ache, but Paul kept running over the tundra, Red Cloud right beside him. The last of the three tanks must have joined the infantry.

“I wonder…how our side is doing,” Paul panted.

Red Cloud didn’t answer.

After that, Paul concentrated. Fourteen minutes later, they spotted the helicopter. The blades were slowly turning and the big bay door was still open. A man in a combat suit was climbing in.

Paul was exhausted. The pain in his side was agony. But he’d been through this before. He ignored the pain and concentrated on pushing himself. The helicopter was life. If he could reach it, he could go home again. If he failed, he died or became a prisoner of the Chinese. Beside him, Red Cloud faltered.

“No,” Paul whispered. He grabbed the Algonquin and kept him going.

Soon, they crawled into the helicopter. Helping hands yanked them in. The blades were turning faster now, and the Marine chopper lurched as it lifted off the cold ground.

Paul’s eyes glazed over, and he waited, wondering if the Chinese would shoot them out of the air. It didn’t happen. They raced out the back of the island, a handful of men: seven to be exact. The lieutenant never made it, leaving the pilot in charge.

“Where next?” asked Paul.

“Far away from here,” the pilot said as they climbed into the night sky, heading west so they wouldn’t run up against the Chinese air defense in Dead Horse.

Lieutenant-General Bai technically won the small action at Cross Island. But he had taken appalling losses: fourteen snowtanks and half his infantry either dead or wounded. When his men counted the number of enemy dead, it frightened Bai. These Americans were tigers.

“What now, sir?” the tank commander asked.

“Now we dash to Dead Horse and add our numbers to General Nung.”

It was bold talk, but Bai knew now that Nung wouldn’t achieve greatness with the addition of these paltry forces. They would need more soldiers and more tanks, many more, if they hoped to conquer the rest of northern Alaska.

As night fell over the fleet, Admiral Ling sat in his ready room, staring at a screen showing an aerial three-dimensional map of Anchorage. His ground commanders had driven a deep wedge into the city, but they were fast running out of fuel.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” said Ling, as he continued to stare at the computer screen.

Commodore Yen slipped in. He took a chair before Ling and waited in silence.

“The American pickup-attack against our land convoy was a brilliant move,” Ling said quietly.

“We have more soldiers,” said Yen.

Ling shook his head. “We’re almost out of fuel. Now our ammo situation is deteriorating. If we could move all that we have on the beachheads to the front, it would be a different story. But these Americans….”

“One final push led by the T-66s can still reach the Anchorage refineries,” said Yen. “Then all will be well.”

“Tomorrow, we shall see,” said Ling.

“You must beg the Chairman for more supplies. Our naval infantry can dig in as they wait for greater reinforcements.”

“Will the Chairman send us more with winter nearing?” asked Ling. “Winter-fighting in Alaska will bring us more blizzards of the type we just endured. I fear that we began the campaign in the wrong season.”

Commodore Yen said nothing to that.

After a time, Admiral Ling continued to adjust the computer screen.

It was mid-morning of the second day of the Battle for Anchorage. Stan crouched beside Major Philips’s corpse. Police Sergeant Jackson had dragged the body out of a destroyed Stryker. The vehicle hadn’t moved fast enough this last time.

During these two days, Philips, Jackson and Stan had lured, ambushed and destroyed three T-66 tri-turreted tanks.

Stan glanced at the smashed Stryker, inhaling the stink of machine oil and hot metal. A large building loomed over them. Shattered glass, piles of black snow and rubble littered the sidewalks and paving. Looking up the street, Stan inspected the wrecked T-66. Chinese corpses lay around it, the tanker crew trying to escape their crippled monster.

The sounds of war reverberated from hundreds of buildings. Chinese artillery boomed outside the city, sending shells screaming into the concrete jungle. There was constant rifle fire, vehicle cannons and hammering machine guns. Anchorage looked like old war footage, with gutted grocery stores, smashed banks and demolished retail outlets.

Standing, Stan adjusted his durasteel armor. He felt hollow and his eyes hurt. There was a bloody bandage around his head for his torn left ear. It made wearing his helmet uncomfortable. Only his Abrams remained. The other two M1A2s had paid the ultimate price, just like Philips. Jose was at the back of the tank, inspecting the engine. Hank checked the treads.

“One Abrams can’t do much against the rest of the T-66s,” Stan said. Philips’s Stryker had been the last of their “bait” team. Jackson was the last police officer of their squad still able to walk.

“It’s not over until it’s over,” Jackson muttered.

Stan glanced at him. The officer had a stony face, his eyes like flint. “Last man standing, huh?”

“I swore an oath a long time ago to protect the people of the city,” Jackson said. “I’m going to do that until I die.”

“That won’t take us long,” Stan said. “The Chinese have too much heavy ordnance for us.” They had destroyed three T-66s and damaged others, almost taking out two more. Those others had retreated to the Chinese side for repairs.

“You still have your tank,” Jackson said, “and I have my assault rifle.”

Stan frowned. The man had been running from T-66s since yesterday, luring more than half-a-dozen into ambush. It was a thankless task and had killed or crippled all the other volunteers. The thing that galled Stan was that it could have worked as a tactic. The Chinese simply had too many of those monsters compared to what America possessed here.

Stan moved his lower jaw, trying to make it so his torn ear didn’t hurt so much. That proved impossible. Stan sighed. He was bone tired, exhausted.

“I want to see them,” he said. “Maybe we can figure out something better.”

Jackson stared up the street. He seemed to be listening to the sounds of combat. The police officer knew the city, all the little side streets and secret ways. It was his knowledge that had let them kill as many T-66s as they had.

“Follow me,” Jackson said.

They crunched over glass and rubble, trotting at times, gripping their weapons and hunching.

“This way,” Jackson said.

The police officer led Stan into a gutted building. They climbed creaking stairs and warily approached a shot-up window. Glass shards littered a desk near the window. Stan swept the glass onto the floor and peered outside.

There was a giant parking lot in the distance, the shell of a parking garage and many other empty lots. Long ago, car dealerships had displayed hundreds of new vehicles there. Now the lead elements of the next Chinese assault moved across the open area. Operationally, the enemy attack had wedged into the city like a triangle. The point—the T-66s—had made it three-quarters of the way through.

“Look at that,” Stan said. “I count five heavies. We have nothing left to stop those.”

“We have your tank.”

“It isn’t enough,” said Stan. “It would be suicide to continue what we’ve been doing.”

“We can’t let the Chinese take Anchorage.”

Stan eyes ached as he watched those giant tanks. Three cannons per vehicle, each of those a 175mm gun. He thought of Major Benson and the M1A3s he had brought from California. That had been a great moment, when Benson’s tanks had scored those hits.

“What’s happening?” Jackson asked.

“What?”

“That T-66 over there,” Jackson said, pointing with his assault rifle.

The lead tri-turreted tank shuddered and began to slow down. That caused the T-66 behind it to veer out of the way so it could go past.

“Why is the tank slowing down in the middle of an open area?” Jackson asked. “Are they going to set up a strongpoint there?”

The T-66 slowed and then stopped. With a loud rattling sound, its engine quit.

The other T-66s passed the stalled monster. Soon, Chinese naval infantry passed the vehicle. As they did, hatches opened and Chinese tankers popped outside.

In wonder, Stan turned to Sergeant Jackson. “You know what that is?”

Jackson shook his head.

“That tank just ran out of gas,” Stan said.

“Are you sure?”

“I know that sound. I’ve heard a similar noise too many times from my own gas-hungry tank. That T-66 just plum ran out of gas.”

“Seems strange, doesn’t it?”

Stan smashed the butt of his assault rifle against the desk. “It’s more than strange. You don’t send a half-empty tank into battle, not if you can help it. You especially don’t do that when the tank is so important to your assault. You drain less important vehicles of their fuel so the critical vehicle has enough. I think the enemy is low on fuel.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Jackson said. “China is the oil king of the world.”

Stan was blinking at the other T-66s. A cold feeling worked through his tired body. Maybe it did make sense. “They have oil,” he said. “But do they have enough transports?”

Jackson glanced at him.

“It’s a long way from China to here,” Stan said. “Then they have to move everything through the Kenai Peninsula. That means Highway One, a single ribbon of road, now clogged by the storm. I think the enemy is low on fuel. By that stalled T-66, I think critically low.”

“So?” Jackson asked.

Stan swiveled around as he glanced at the stairs. His mouth opened and he blinked his red eyes. “If they’re low on fuel….” He frowned as he stared out of the window again. “Shit,” he whispered.

“What is it, Professor?”

Stan grabbed Jackson by the arm. “The Chinese are headed for the fuel depots. They need our fuel. We have to blow them!”

“Our side needs the fuel, too,” Jackson said.

“Come on!” Stan shouted, as he headed for the stairs. “Run!”

“General Sims, sir,” Stan said over the radio. “You have to listen to me.”

Captain Higgins was inside his Abrams, heading for the giant fuel depots. The Chinese were less than a mile from the storage facility. Jackson rode inside the tank with the rest of the crew. Stan had worked the radio, climbing through the chain of command until finally he spoke with C-in-C of Alaska, General Sims.

“I just saw a T-66 run out of gas, sir,” Stan said, as he clicked the receiver.

“Yes?” Sims asked. “That happens all the time to us, Captain.”

“You don’t understand, sir. I think the Chinese are low on fuel.”

“There’s always the possibility,” Sims said, “but I find that unlikely.”

“Yet what if it’s true, sir?”

“Is there a reason for this call?” Sims asked.

“The Chinese need our fuel depots. That’s why they’re driving for it.”

“It’s an important military target, certainly.”

“Sir, this is just like the Western Desert of World War Two. Before the Germans arrived, British General O’Conner used Italian fuel dumps to keep his drive alive as he drove for the main Italian-run ports.”

“What are you babbling about, Captain?”

“We have to destroy our fuel depots,” Stan said. “We have to blow them.”

“We need those storage units,” Sims said.

“Sir, we don’t have much time.”

“There aren’t any engineers near there. Besides, we’re not going to lose them. I thought this was a battle request, Captain. You and your team have done a fine job of destroying T-66s. Keeping doing that and we’ll win. But leave the strategy to me.”

Stan stared at his receiver. Should he keep arguing? Could he make General Sims understand? His grip tightened and he felt lightheaded.

“Yes, sir,” Stan said. “I’m sorry if I sounded presumptuous.”

“You’re tired, Captain. I understand. Hold out and keep fighting. We’re not finished yet.”

Yes, we are, especially if the Chinese capture those storage tanks intact. Instead of saying that, Stan signed off.

“So much for that,” Jackson said.

“Wrong,” Stan said. “Hank, are you looking at your city map?”

“Yes, sir,” Hank said.

“Take us to the fuel depots,” Stan said.

Jackson stared up at him.

“Are you ready for this?” Stan asked the police officer.

“You’re taking a lot on yourself, Professor,” Jackson said.

“Sometimes a battle is decided with a man and his rifle…if he happens to be at exactly the right spot,” Stan said. “This time, it’s a crew and its tank at the critical juncture.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Jackson asked.

“I’m not wrong,” Stan said. “Hank?”

“Hang on,” Hank said.

“General Sims must have radioed ahead,” Hank said. “I’m seeing a military detail outside the gate. It looks like they mean to stop us.”

They’d driven through the city and to the entrance of the huge storage depots. Beyond the gate were giant white oil tanks that held millions of gallons of gas, diesel and kerosene.

Stan peered through his scope. There was a Bradley, three Humvees and several squads of soldiers positioned before the gate behind piled sandbags. A chain-link fence circled the giant storage facility.

“What do we do now?” Jose asked.

“Sergeant Jackson,” Stan said. “Do you mind going outside and talking to them?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Your best lines of B.S.,” Stan said. “Con them into lowering their guns.”

“And if they don’t?” Jackson asked.

“Then surrender immediately.”

“What about you?” Jackson asked.

“I’ll wait until you’re well outside the tank,” Stan said.

Jackson stared at him, and finally, he nodded. “Good luck, Professor. I hope you’re right about this.”

They shook hands. Then Stan opened his hatch and Jackson climbed out.

“Give him a minute,” Stan said.

From outside, an officer shouted at Jackson, “Why is your tank here?”

“Are you two ready?” Stan asked.

Jose turned and looked up. “Just give me the word, Stan.”

“If you think this is right thing, Professor,” Hank said, “then I’m convinced.”

“They might hang us if I’m wrong,” Stan said.

“We’re brothers,” Jose said. “We trust you that you know what you’re doing.”

Stan reached up for the hatch as something caught in his throat. Then he steeled his nerves. He heard Jackson arguing with the officer-in-charge.

“Now!” Stan said, and he shut the hatch with a clang.

Hank revved the M1A2, and they lurched.

Stan peered through his scope. Soldiers ran to get out of the way. Then the Bradley rushed into view. With a mighty clang, Hank rammed the Bradley, shoving it out of the way. A moment later, the Abrams crashed through the chain-link fence.

“Load a HE round,” Stan said. “Then aim for the farthest storage unit.”

Jose went to work as the auto-loader shoved a round into the firing chamber.

Bullets began striking and bouncing off their tank. Then heavy .50 caliber rounds hit the Abrams. Those must be coming from the Humvees. They had zero effect as well.

“Fire,” Stan said.

The 120mm smoothbore shot a high explosive round into a giant storage unit. It hit, and a titanic explosion erupted, a fierce roar of sound. Seconds later, the shockwave rocked the tank.

As a fireball climbed into existence, Stan shouted, “Keep firing! We’re going to blow them all!”

Deep underground in White House Bunker Number Five, a weary Anna Chen closed her eyes. The fighting in Anchorage—everyone thought the battle had been lost with the annihilation of the storage depots three days ago. Now Alfredo Diaz had given her another memory chip. That hadn’t been a Chinese strike on the depots as the U.S. military had originally reported. Should she speak up concerning it?

A chair scraped back. Anna opened her eyes. General Alan stood up. For the first time in days, a smile threatened, a ghost of one. It was better than the general’s former worry lines and radiating gloom.

“Mr. President,” General Alan said, “it appears we must revise our estimates. As you know, the lead elements of our Fourth Army in the Yukon were airlifted near the city. They stiffened our beleaguered troops and held on. Now the Fourth Army is through the passes, racing for Anchorage. It is my belief they will arrive before the Chinese can muster another assault.” The general pursed his lips. “I’m not sure how to explain it, but intelligence has evidence that the Chinese supply lines have been stretched to the breaking point. Chinese troops are marching on foot to Anchorage instead of riding trucks or personnel carriers. There are even reconnaissance photos showing twenty or more soldiers per truck dragging the vehicles along the main road.”

“The enemy hasn’t given up the drive then?” the President asked.

“Their artillery tubes are firing a fraction of the number of shells as previously,” the general said. “There is little enemy traffic in and around the city, while the remaining T-66s are now acting as strongpoints, gigantic bunkers for the defense. The Chinese are definitely holding on to what they have…but I think the present assault has stalled.”

“Can the Fourth Army throw them out of Anchorage?” the President asked.

“It’s much too early to think about that, sir. In my opinion, we can think about bottling them in Anchorage and keeping them from spreading out. Once the Fifth Army arrives, then we can begin planning our own offensive, provided the Chinese don’t ship reinforcements from the mainland.”

“Our submarines must concentrate on Chinese troopships,” the President said.

“A few of our subs are already on station, sir. But as I’ve said, there haven’t been any reinforcing troopships yet.”

President Clark nodded thoughtfully.

“May I ask a question, sir?” Anna asked.

“Please,” the President said.

“General,” Anna said, “you spoke about the Chinese dragging supply trunks to the front.”

“We have evidence of that, yes.”

“Would you say then that they’ve run out of fuel?”

“That’s an imprecise term,” General Alan said, “but I understand your meaning. Given the evidence, it seems a logical but surprising conclusion.”

Anna gathered her resolve as she said, “It would seem then that the Chinese could have used Anchorage’s storage depots, if they had captured them.”

General Alan blinked at her. “I can’t believe Chinese strategy rested on the capture of enemy depots. The initial success of their invasion shows a high level of planning and executive ability. Resting an offensive on the capture of enemy supplies—I simply can’t believe that was their plan. This is modern war, not some ancient raiding expedition.”

“What is your point, Ms. Chen?” the President asked.

“Sir,” Anna said. “We have been told the Chinese destroyed the Anchorage depots. Yet I’ve heard reports about a National Guard tank captain. On his own initiative, he blew the oil depots, not the Chinese.”

“Where did you hear about this?” General Alan asked sharply.

“Is this true?” the President asked. “What would possess one of our own soldiers to do such a thing?”

“The captain believed the Chinese were low on fuel and that they needed more,” Anna said. “It’s why the T-66s were headed for the depots.”

“That’s a supposition,” General Alan said.

Anna smiled. “The Chinese are dragging their supply trucks to the front, meaning the captain guessed correctly. I believe his action saved Anchorage.”

“Who are you talking about?” the President asked.

Anna stared at the general, so did everyone else in the chamber.

General Alan slowly shook his head. “A Captain Stan Higgins attacked our storage depots in Anchorage, sir. He injured a dozen Army soldiers doing it. As Ms. Chen has stated, he blew up the fuel tanks. What I’d like to know,” he said, turning toward Anna, “is how you learned of this.”

Anna faced the President. “Captain Higgins attempted to talk General Sims into destroying the storage units. Sims refused and now the captain and his crew are under arrest for treason. Yet by the evidence, the captain guessed right and likely saved Anchorage for us.”

“Is this true?” Clark asked General Alan. “Did a National Guard captain destroy the depots?”

The general hesitated before he said, “Yes, sir. It’s true.”

The President frowned. “The Chinese are dragging their trucks. What would have happened if they had captured our storage facilities intact?”

“It’s hard to say, sir,” General Alan replied.

“No it isn’t,” Anna said. “Reconnaissance has shown us more Chinese troops and more munitions in the Kenai Peninsula. Our defense barely held. I think it’s clear the Chinese would have taken all of Anchorage and possibly raced to the passes to halt the Fourth Army there. Because they ran out of fuel, the Chinese bogged down at precisely the wrong time for them.”

The President eyed the general. Then he glanced at Anna. Finally, Clark sat back, drumming his fingers on the conference table. “I pardon the captain, if he needs it. And I pardon his tank crew. Then I want him in Washington.”

“Sir?” asked General Alan.

“The man deserves the Congressional Medal of Honor for what he did.”

“But sir—”

“That’s an order,” the President said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we’re going to think this through. We’ve stopped the Chinese in the south, and he’s holed in at Dead Horse in the north.” The President examined his people. “The priority is South Central Alaska. I want the Chinese driven into the sea.”

“That will likely take a bloody battle, sir,” General Alan said.

“Bloody or not,” Clark said, “I want this invasion army destroyed, and it looks like we’re soon going to get our chance.”

Jian Hong, Minister without Portfolio, glanced at the other Ruling Committee members waiting on the Chairman. Admiral Qiang of the Navy looked weary, while Police Minister Xiao seemed positively frightened. Xiao had lost weight, giving his face a skeletal look. The marshal, the Army Minister, sat as stiffly as ever, although a tic had begun under his right eye. Only Deng Fong seemed the same, the same miserable intriguer with his secretive cunning.

The door opened and the Chairman’s wheelchair moved across the carpeted floor. He stopped at the head of the table. A medical tube from the box in the back of the chair to the Chairman’s side made an odd gurgling noise. A blue clot made its way out of the Chairman and to the box.

Jian suppressed a shudder of loathing. The old man should be dead by now. Only advanced medicines kept him alive.

“It is time for decisions,” the Chairman whispered. His chair didn’t amplify his words, nor did he speak with vigor. He seemed tired, possibly dispirited.

As Jian tried to decide if he should say something, Admiral Qiang took a deep breath. “May I speak, sir?” Qiang asked.

“By all means,” the Chairman said.

“The naval infantry has set up heavy defensive stations in Anchorage. We hold the Kenai Peninsula. At present, we will soon face the American Fourth Army. I have no qualms about holding what we have. However, there is another army moving through the Yukon. To face the combined mass we will need more fuel, munitions and another three fresh brigades.”

“How will you ship this new transfusion to your trapped naval infantry?” the Chairman asked.

“By using Navy transports, sir,” said Qiang.

“These transports are needed for grain,” the Chairman said. “Isn’t that right, Xiao?”

“The people’s anger is growing worse,” the Police Minister said in a soft voice. “The people of the inner provinces are very hungry.”

“But the war, sir—” said Qiang.

“Has ground to a halt,” the Chairman said. “I have seen the evidence, and it shows me a lack of planning and preparation. Our troops lack munitions and fuel. It is an intolerable situation.”

“I asked for re-supplies,” Qiang said.

“Silence!” the Chairman hissed. “You assured me your naval brigades could snatch Alaska for me. They failed to move with speed. Bah. I made a mistake trying to wage a ground war with naval troops. I should have never listened to you and your insidious lies.”

“Sir—” said Qiang.

“Silence!” the Chairman said, as he slapped the armrest of his wheelchair. There was fire in his eyes. “A ground war or an ice war—the Army succeeded in their appointed task. I should have trusted them to wage the battle in South Central Alaska. Even though General Nung fought in a bitterly alien environment and with an amazingly stretched supply line, he reached Dead Horse. The Army is to be congratulated for that.” The old man glanced at the marshal.

Kao smiled, although it seemed pained.

Jian recognized it. I didn’t realize he hates Nung that much.

“General Nung has reached Dead Horse,” the Chairman said. “Despite the distance, Army reinforcements reached him, strengthening the general’s position. Meanwhile, in South Central Alaska, the entire front has stalled. They are out of fuel and have dwindling stocks of munitions.”

“With more fuel—” Qiang began.

“No!” the Chairman said. “I will not send more ships into the northern waters as winter approaches. If you had taken the city and opened the port, moving on to the passes, yes. Then I would pour Army troops into the city. But as the Arctic winter approaches I will not throw good troops after bad ones.”

Admiral Qiang stiffened. “They are not bad troops, sir.”

The Chairman snorted.

“The war—” Jian said.

“Quiet!” the Chairman said. “I know you are politically allied with Qiang, but you will not use your boasts here today to help our failed admiral.” The old man glowered at Jian. “I did not believe you had it in you to revive military men. Yet you lit a fire under Nung after he sat waiting for the heavens to fall, it appears. Because he waited so long, it will be difficult to hold onto the North Slope. I suppose we can destroy the oil wells there so America’s fuel burns and their economy withers away. We have denied them the Arctic Ocean oil wells and the Prudhoe Bay fields. That might be enough to induce them to trade for our oil.”

“I do not think the Americans will sell us grain now, sir,” Deng said.

“No,” the Chairman said, after a moments reflection. “Neither do I. We attempted to snatch Alaska from them in a swift, surprise attack. Our attack came within centimeters of success but in the end, it failed. Now we must glean from it what we can.”

The Chairman studied his ministers. “Our chief advantage is that the Americans dared to use nuclear weapons. The outcry against them is growing worldwide. We might be able to use that to break the Grain Union. We have hurt America and shown the world how weak they are. To conquer American territory, however, we needed a stronger merchant marine and a greater number of Navy transports. Therefore, I am ordering an immediate increase in ship construction.”

“Sir?” asked Deng.

“The war has shown us that China needs a larger Navy,” the Chairman said. “Therefore, we will buy that with our riches.”

“What about our naval infantry in Alaska?” Admiral Qiang asked.

The old man in the wheelchair fell silent, watching his ministers.

Jian’s throat was dry. He needed war to advance his political power, of that he was certain. Already, his standing in the Ruling Committee and the nation had risen because his man Nung had captured Dead Horse.

“Sir,” Jian said, “Chinese honor demands—”

“You will make demands of me, Jian Hong?” the Chairman asked.

“No, sir, never that,” Jian said, as he wilted under the old man’s gaze and fell silent.

“Sir,” said a shaken Qiang, “in the interests of my troops, I must point out that the Americans are bringing heavy reinforcements. We must match them or risk losing the battle.”

“The battle is already lost,” Deng said.

“The Americans never defeated us,” Jian pointed out.

“We failed to reach our goal,” Deng said. “Sir, do you wish to send more troops to Alaska?”

“No,” the Chairman muttered. “I have already said as much. The rice riots make that impossible. Our ships are needed elsewhere now.”

An icicle of fear stabbed Jian. Some might still try to blame him for the poor harvests, and now he didn’t have a war to distract them. Then inspiration struck. “Sir, I have an idea.”

“Do you wish to start another war?” Deng asked in scathing tone.

“I am Chinese,” Jian said, squaring his shoulders. “I think in longer terms than a simple battle. We have taught the Americans a harsh lesson and must now move on to the next step.”

“What have we taught them?” Deng asked. “That given time they can halt our attacks?”

“You mock Chinese arms,” Jian said. “I do not.”

“I make no mockery,” Deng said.

“Silence,” the Chairman told Deng. “Let Jian speak. Yes. He knew how to motivate General Nung. I should have sent Jian to Admiral Ling. Then we would have taken Anchorage and sealed the Americans behind the Yukon passes.”

Jian dipped his head. “You honor me, sir.”

“Give us your idea,” the Chairman said.

“War is not always fought by weapons,” Jian said. “The great Sun Tzu taught us that. Because of a few unfortunate accidents, our naval infantry will soon face the onslaught of massed American troops. I doubt the lazy Americans could throw us off the Kenai Peninsula, but we must not give them the opportunity to try. We must use our victorious assault into Dead Horse to save the naval infantry and Chinese battle-honor in the south.”

The Chairman nodded for him to continue.

“We have shown the world the deadliness of Chinese arms,” Jian said. “We have taught the arrogant Americans a sharp lesson. They withhold food. Very well. We will withhold oil. We now hold the Arctic oilfields and Prudhoe Bay. At the conference table, let us trade Dead Horse for a timed withdrawal from South Central Alaska.”

“I fail to see how leaving the peninsula like a whipped cur helps us in the long term,” Deng said.

“You lack the eyes to see,” Jian said. “We have shattered the American Fleet and we have broken the image of an untouchable America. Our technology also proved superior to theirs, and we have taken the Arctic oilfields from them. Our troops shall march out of South Central Alaska as heroes, unconquered on the battlefield.”

“All this is beside the point,” Deng said. “We still have our food shortage. How will you fix this?”

Jian forced himself to smile indulgently. “That shall be our long-term strategy: gaining political alliances with the grain-growing countries or threatening them with Chinese proxies. This little lesson in Alaska and our growing fleet will give weight to our threats.”

“Provided we do not suffer a defeat in Anchorage and the Kenai Peninsula,” Admiral Qiang said. “Sir, I still respectfully suggest we send reinforcements to Alaska. We can win this war. It is too early to admit ourselves beaten.”

The Chairman scowled. “The Army wasn’t beaten, but these naval infantry of yours….” The old man shook his head. “Now is the time to use our experiences to build an improved military. I shall speak to the President. Yes, I shall maneuver him into asking for peace talks. Then you, Jian, shall go to the conference and use Dead Horse and the Prudhoe Bay oilfields as hostage for his good behavior concerning our naval infantry. Afterward, we shall begin teaching these Americans what it means making China your enemy.”

Deng Fong shifted uneasily, looking as if he wanted to speak.

The Police Minister spoke up first. “That is a splendid plan, sir. I heartily agree.”

The marshal of the Army nodded.

“Admiral Qiang?” the Chairman asked.

“With more fuel, sir—”

“No,” the Chairman said, as his eyes bulged. “I’ve had enough of your cries. This entire mess is of your doing. You destroyed the American oil well and you pushed for this attack.” He pressed a button on his wheelchair.

The double doors opened and three armed Lion Guards stepped in.

“Take him,” the Chairman said, indicating Admiral Qiang.”

“Sir,” Qiang said, standing. “I ask your permission to speak.”

“Shoot him,” the Chairman said coldly, “and incinerate his body.”

The admiral’s mouth opened as shock marked his features.

“Your naval infantry stained Chinese honor,” the Chairman said.

“Sir, I beg you,” Qiang pleaded.

A Lion Guard clutched an arm. The second one did likewise to the other arm as the third man aimed his gun at the admiral.

“Take him outside and shoot him,” the Chairman said, “for he has failed me, which means he has failed Greater China.”

The guards hustled a protesting Admiral Qiang from the chamber.

“He wronged all of us,” the Chairman said, his dark eyes shining. “Later, we shall list his deficiencies to the people, letting them understand why our naval personnel failed to achieve their objective.”

The other ministers sat in silence, each wrapped in his own stark thoughts.

Paul Kavanagh was on the phone in a small hut atop a mountain. The long-distance line to California was finally coming through. Red Cloud was outside, waiting near the Marine helicopter.

Someone on the other end of the line picked up the phone. “Hello?” a woman asked.

“Cheri?” Paul said, his heart racing and his face flushed.

“Paul?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s me.”

“Paul, you’re alive. I-I thought….”

“I’m coming home, baby.” By all that was holy, he loved her voice. It was beautiful. It was life.

“What do you mean ‘coming home?’”

“I mean that I’m sorry for all the ways I treated you badly. It means I want to start over. I love you, baby. I want to be with you more than anything in the world. What do you say, Cheri? Do you think there’s a chance?”

A sob came over the crackling line.

“Cheri?” Paul said, worried he’d lost the connection as he had before outside Platform P-53.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Cheri whispered. “When I thought you were dead…. Please, Paul, hurry home. I love you so much. I know that now.”

Paul grinned so hard it hurt his cheeks. “I love you too, baby. I’ll be home in a few weeks.”

“Oh, Paul, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’m so terribly glad you’re alive. This is wonderful.”

“Yeah, I’m done fighting. It’s out of my system. All I want is to love you and raise my boy right. I can hardly wait to hold you in my arms again.”

This was great! This was why he was alive. He’d paid his vow to Murphy. Now it was time to live again.

If you enjoyed Invasion: Alaska, you might also enjoy Accelerated. Read on for an exciting excerpt.