Invasion: Alaska

-1- Upheaval

I do not belong in this submarine, Commando First Rank Ru thought to himself. He sat on a metal bench inside the nuclear attack submarine Pao Feng. It was the quietest boat in the Chinese Fleet, and it was less than sixty kilometers from coastal Los Angeles.

Three other Bai Hu Tezhongbing—White Tiger Commandos—sat on the benches beside Ru. They were a stern-faced Underwater Demolition Team, an elite group of combat divers. Ru had the unfortunate privilege of being hailed as the best combat diver in Greater China. It was the reason the government had revoked his exemption and returned him to active service with this UDT.

The deckplates vibrated under his feet as a water droplet condensed on a pipe above. The droplet fell near his flippers, which were stacked against his bundle of CHKR-57 high explosives. Red light bathed the Commandos, and the softest of lurches told Ru that the submarine had begun to rise.

This tightened his stomach. He did not belong here. He had already served his time.

Ru’s eyes narrowed. He was an athletic man with compact muscles and thick wrists. His face was unremarkable, save that it was flatter than average and indicated Vietnamese heritage. That was a taint in the Socialist-Nationalist China of 2032, but he had proven himself in Taiwan and seldom had to worry about such things now.

There was a soft click to his left. Ru and the other three Commandos looked up as a flat computer-scroll flickered with life. The face of the submarine captain filled the scroll. He wore a white officer’s hat, had narrow features and sucked on a cigarette stub. A thin ribbon of smoke curled from the stub and drifted before the captain’s eyes. His had the eerie deadliness of a hammerhead shark. Behind him, a sailor moved to a different station.

“We are approaching the designated area,” the captain said. He had a raspy voice and he was known for his strict discipline. “I wish you men luck.” Nicotine-stained fingertips plucked the cigarette from his mouth as on-scroll he leaned toward them. “First Rank Ru, I am grateful that you came out of retirement to lead the assault. Your patriotism humbles us. You are a true Chinese fighter and I salute you.”

Mashing the cigarette into an unseen ashtray, the captain saluted. A second later, the computer-scroll went blank.

The four Commandos lurched to their feet. As they did, Ru became aware of Soldier Rank Kwan’s stare. Ru glanced at the man, the largest among them and thickly muscled from too much time on the weight machines. Kwan had a mustache and dark skin like a Turk of the outer provinces.

“Your patriotism humbles us all,” Kwan said.

The others nodded or mumbled agreement. Maybe only Ru heard the bite in Kwan’s words. In the red glow of the compartment their eyes locked, and Ru understood that Kwan knew his secret.

Like the others, Ru wore a wetsuit and a web-belt with a combat knife and a TOZ-2 underwater pistol attached. He now lifted the rebreather that rested against his high explosives and shouldered it onto his back. After securing the rebreather, he attached the high explosives to his chest, settling the CHKR-57 so it wouldn’t restrict his breathing.

“I know your patriotism is as strong as mine,” Ru said. “What I ask now is that you each remember your training.” They had been brought together a mere four weeks ago, intensely rehearsing their attack ever since. Ru was surprised he spoke with such confidence. The fact he did so made him glad. Maybe Soldier Rank Kwan understood his secret anger, but it would be better if the others didn’t realize.

Ru inhaled, tasting the boat’s oil-tainted air. He had forgotten how narrow a submarine’s compartments and passageways could be. He forced himself to grin and to glance at each of the White Tigers in turn. Each was younger than him, most by nine years. None was married and none had sisters because there was only one child per family—the one child per family policy being law, one of Greater China’s most strictly enforced.

“After this,” Ru said, “after we are successful, each of you shall win marriage permits. So I hope each of you has a chosen girl to pursue back home.”

The others stared at him, their features expressionless. These younger men coming out of the training camps were different than those Ru had known when he’d first joined. These men seemed more puritanical, almost like the Shaolin monks of the history books.

Soldier Rank Kwan spoke up. “We do this for the honor of China.”

Not wanting to get into an argument over it, Ru began to don his full-face diving mask. It was bigger than an ordinary sport mask. As the name implied, the full-face mask covered his entire face, protecting it from cold water and from possible pollution. Because his lips were free, he could talk inside the mask. Sometimes they used modulated ultrasound comm-units for talking to each other underwater. Today, they would use speaker units, but only for talking above the water. They didn’t want to use the ultrasound and risk having the Americans pick up their voices. Ru appreciated full-face masks because he no longer had to clench a mouthpiece. That made a difference during a long-distance swim.

He fastened several straps around his head. Then he clicked the set/air valve, breathing the submarine’s atmosphere. The switch was on the mask but out of the way, so he wouldn’t accidentally bump it during the dive. The rest of the mask was smooth around his face and head. That would keep it from brushing against something underwater and dislodging it—a flooded full-face mask was harder to clear of water than an ordinary sport mask.

The mask’s window or faceplate was a modern polymer instead of glass. Because the inside of the faceplate could become fogged during a dive, Ru’s mask had a special design feature: whenever he breathed, the inflow of air blew over the polymer. That air evaporated any mist on the inner faceplate, giving Ru clear sight.

With his rebreather hooked to the fitted mask, Ru moved past Kwan and the others. He squeezed through the hatch into the airlock chamber. He carried ninety pounds of CHKR-57 explosive. Another White Tiger followed him into the airlock, making it a tight fit. Ru pressed a button, and the chamber rotated, sealing them within.

In seconds, cold saltwater gurgled around their ankles. It rose quickly, reaching their thighs, their waist, and heading up for their chest. Ru half-turned from his partner. As the water swirled around him, he raised his right hand and touched a plastic pouch secured to the strap crossing his left pectoral. Curled within the pouch was a photograph of his pregnant wife, Lu May. Ru’s fingertips rested on the hidden photograph. Reflexively, his teeth ground together as the muscles that hinged his jaws tightened.

I should be in my favorite chair in our apartment in Shanghai. I should be listening to my wife sing lullabies to our unborn daughter.

Ru leaned his head against the chamber’s wall. The unfairness of this seethed within him. He had served his time and had risked his life for the State in order to earn the fabulous reward of marriage. Now he was supposed to enjoy marital bliss, not risk his hard-won happiness in order to harm Americans.

Years ago, he had become a White Tiger for a reason, and that reason wasn’t patriotism. It was because of Lu May, the only one for him. Since puberty, Ru had longed for her. He had never used a prostitute as many men did these days. Prostitutes were far too expensive and he found the idea repulsive. The first time he lay with a woman, he’d vowed, it would be Lu May—and he would never lay with another. He believed a woman was meant for one man alone. In trade school during his teens, he had thought it out carefully. At seventeen, he’d volunteered for the Army, passed the rigorous physical and mental tests, and gained admittance to the famed White Tigers. They were the elite Special Forces of China and considered the fastest way for a man to earn marriage rights, not to mention one of the few ways for a Chinese man to gain such rights while he was still in his twenties. The only trick was remaining alive throughout the hazardous duty.

Much to his disgust, Ru had still been in training when the war with Siberia started and ended. Fortunately, the war with Taiwan occurred a year and a half later. Ru had gone in with the second-wave UDT-attack into Taipei Harbor. Each White Tiger had carried a limpet mine, named for a type of mollusk. By activating powerful magnets, each diver was to attach his mine to an enemy hull and then swim to safety; a ticking fuse would blow the mine shortly thereafter. Every member of the first wave had died. Every member of Ru’s team had died too…except for him.

Soldier Rank Kwan’s favorite cousin, Mengyao, had been Ru’s best friend then. Mengyao had died in Taipei Harbor, and Ru was certain Soldier Rank Kwan blamed him for surviving. Second cousins were rare and therefore cherished in China.

Ru’s limpet mine had destroyed the Light Cruiser Quicken. He still had nightmares of that time. Both his eardrums had burst and he still experienced nosebleeds much too easily. The government had publicly hailed his performance. Not only had he gained the Medal of Excellence for the successful assault, but he’d also won a coveted marriage permit, a jiehunzheng. He had been paraded on TV as a Hero of the People.

That had been eight years ago. It had taken three of those years to woo Lu May. A woman in China had many suitors. Many richer men had sought out Lu May, a beauty, a rare and wonderful prize. In the end, she had chosen him, although he was only a First Rank Commando.

In the submarine’s diving chamber, the cold saltwater surrounded Ru. A clang sounded. Reaching up, Ru turned the wheel until he heard a click. He pushed, and the hatch opened into the Pacific Ocean one hundred meters below the surface.

Kicking his fins, Ru swam through the hatch. Even after years of training, this was an eerie experience. The attack submarine was the only visible thing in the darkness. Lights shined on the hull, allowing enough visibility to see the numbers painted below his fins.

First checking to see that his partner followed, Ru headed toward the bow. He kicked smoothly, expertly using his muscles to propel himself through the murky underworld. The trick was to relax, to pretend he was a shark or a barracuda. Soldier Rank Kwan was bigger, stronger and tougher, but none of his men was a better swimmer. It had been the key to Ru’s success.

The submarine’s hull shuddered and a mass of bubbles rose ahead of him. Ru slowed. He was near the bow, by the torpedo tubes. The captain ejected a T-9 SDV, or Swimmer Delivery Vehicle. It was torpedo-shaped, made of ceramic-plate so it had a negligible radar signature, and ran on Japanese batteries. There was a cage around the propeller so none of the White Tigers could accidentally cut themselves on it. Hydroplanes would guide the vehicle.

Ru kicked his fins, moving away from the submarine so the yawning darkness of the deep spread out below him. The SDV floated in the murk at neutral buoyancy, with an emitter guiding Ru to it. Soon, he was straddling the T-9. What looked like a small motorcycle-screen protected the controls and compass. Through his thighs, he felt the other White Tiger securing himself to the saddle-seat behind him. Ru switched on the power, and green lights blinked into life. He checked the panel. A red light appeared—the other T-9 was ready.

Ru fed power to the propeller and adjusted the T-9’s hydroplanes. He moved away from the submarine and toward the Californian coast almost sixty kilometers away. The vehicle’s vibration was slight and water rushed against him, as he was only partially protected by the forward screen.

Ru twisted back. The Commando seated behind him leaned out of the way. Farther behind followed Kwan and his partner on their T-9. Nodding, Ru faced forward as he felt the rush of water against his chest. He peered about the dark world, with millions of tons of water surrounding him. It was nearly silent with his rebreather and full-face mask. Even with a man right behind him, he felt terribly alone in the vast Pacific Ocean.

This was possibly the longest distance combat swim in Chinese history. It would have been impossible without rebreathers. They were a marvel of marine technology and were a closed-circuit scuba, almost akin to a space suit’s tanks. As a person breathed, his lungs used-up oxygen and created carbon dioxide as waste gas. With open-circuit scuba or the familiar aqua-lung, a diver only used some of the oxygen in each of his breaths. He breathed out unused oxygen together with nitrogen and carbon dioxide waste, blowing the bubbles of gas into the surrounding water. That meant oxygen escaped that he could have used, and it meant he needed to carry extra diving cylinders.

The rebreather, on the other hand, re-circulated the exhaled gas for re-use. It did not discharge the unused oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon dioxide waste into the water as bubbles. Instead, the rebreather absorbed the carbon dioxide by scrubbing it. The rebreather also added oxygen to replace the consumed gas. Because of this, a diver only needed a fraction of the gas he would have used in an open-circuit system. Ultimately, what it meant was that he needed to carry fewer cylinders on his back.

The rewards of using a rebreather were many. Because a diver needed less gas, he could swim longer at one time and go deeper. And, during an ascent, rebreathers produced no bubbles, which could give away a diver’s position while swimming in enemy territory. Bubbles also created noise, making it harder to listen as closely. Further, the rebreather minimized the amount of inert gases in the mix and therefore minimized the decompression needed later, reducing the likelihood of getting the bends.

There were other rewards, too. In an open-circuit cylinder, the cold breathable gas became uncomfortable over time and caused dehydration. The rebreather air was warmer and moister. Lastly, as a regular scuba diver inhaled, the expanding gas entering his lungs caused him to rise slightly and then lower as he breathed out. He lost his neutral buoyancy. In a rebreather, this occurred less.

Keeping a constant speed on the T-9 and straining to see in the darkness, Ru endured the lonely voyage. He understood the mission’s parameters. The Siberian oilfields under China’s control, combined with offshore drilling and domestic production, had turned her into the largest oil-producing nation in the world. China had more than enough energy, but with her teeming population, she lacked enough food. Despite her superpower status, stiff rationing was practiced throughout the country. Ru had listened to lectures concerning the return of a small ice age and harsher weather patterns, but he’d usually fallen into a daze during them. Crop yields were down all over the world, although a few southern countries had increased food exports. America was the leader of the new Grain Union of Canada, Argentina, Australia and others, and China demanded preferred status. Her chief bargaining chip was oil, the limited resource that still ran much of the world’s industries and the majority of the transportation systems.

America had grain and China needed more. The Party leaders would do whatever they had to in order to feed China’s hordes. Ru shook his head in disgust. Grain. Oil. What else did he need to know other than the government had lied to him? Men with marriage permits were supposed to be exempt from frontline service. They had told him he was the best frogman and China now desperately needed her favored son to save the nation in this bleak hour.

Ru wanted to curse. Instead, he checked the instruments. Then he brought the T-9 toward the surface. He had been doing so slowly throughout the voyage. Even with rebreathers, their bodies needed time to adjust to the nitrogen levels in their bloodstreams.

Finally, Ru’s masked head broke the surface—and then his body—as the T-9 moved through the ocean like a fast-floating log. He switched the set/air valve and breathed the cold atmosphere around him. With a flick of his fingers, he shut down the caged propeller so they glided to a halt.

The torpedo-shaped vehicle soon rode a mighty swell. The mass of water hissed around him, while the stars glittered above in amazing profusion. After a week underwater in the submarine, the stars were a glorious sight. In Shanghai, Lu May and he liked to walk in the park at night gazing at the constellations.

A pang squeezed Ru’s chest. He had the terrible feeling that he would never see his wife again. His wife would remarry. A Chinese woman had no choice about that. If his unborn daughter wasn’t aborted first, she would gain a stepfather and she would never know he’d existed.

Ru tried to control his anguish. He was the best frogman in China. He would survive and he would return to Shanghai. In several weeks, he would hold Lu May and shower her face with kisses.

Ru shifted in his saddle-seat as Soldier Rank Kwan slowly drove his T-9 near.

A big ocean swell passed underneath him and Ru’s T-9 sank into a watery trough. Another swell barreled toward him, with tiny phosphorescent plankton glowing like ghosts in the water. It was so peaceful here, almost surreal. Yet he had come to attach explosives to an oil platform.

The Americans had sonar and radar on their oil platforms. Secessionist terrorists had attempted sabotage on various oil rigs in the past. Security details now accompanied the deep-sea workmen. It was the reason the attack submarine had released the White Tigers so far from target. It was why they used ceramic-plate T-9s, and it was the reason they would swim the rest of the way. No one must ever realize that Chinese soldiers had attacked Americans.

By hand, Ru signaled Kwan. They hadn’t attached any communication wires to each other yet, nor did Ru use his mask’s speaker. He liked the silence and the four of them knew what to do.

Shutting down his T-9, Ru set the timer to the directional emitter. If they were to survive the combat swim, they would have to return and find the T-9s. He switched the set/air valve back, tasting the rebreather’s warm mixture again, and slid into the water.

The four of them shoved and dragged the vehicles beside each other, using clamps and lines to attach them. When they were finished, the others gathered around Ru.

Kwan held up his hand. Ru frowned. Kwan pointed north. Ru heard a motorboat then. At this distance, he didn’t know how big the boat was or who it belonged to. They watched, seeing lights. The motorboat headed west. Had someone spotted the submarine? That was bad, but there was nothing they could do about it now.

Ru pulled out his compass. The others knew what it meant. They must continue with the operation. Ru submerged and reentered the dark waters, a human seal in the womb of the endless sea. After riding for so long, it felt good to use his thighs. Ru kicked in a steady rhythm, propelling himself to the target. Every time he glanced back, he saw the other White Tigers following, their faceplates aimed at him. He glanced several times into Kwan’s hard eyes. That tightened the muscles in Kwan’s face.

The White Tiger Commandos were unique to the Socialist-Nationalist government ruling China. That government had risen to power in 2021 under the present Chairman. The White Tigers had been the first to implement the new enlisted rankings. They had dispensed with the old order of private, corporal and sergeant. Instead, it went Fighter Rank, Soldier Rank and First Rank. After several years, the Chinese Army, Navy and National Militia had incorporated the new enlisted rankings. In everything military, the Bai Hu led the way.

Many kilometers later, Ru’s head and shoulders broke out of the water. Like sea otters, the others soon surfaced around him. Ru pointed. There in the distance was the giant oil platform, with its bright lights shining in the night. The Americans had built it several years ago. According to the briefing, it had taken a special act of Congress and fierce debates among the environmentalists of the country. The Americans needed oil, and they were breaking long-held taboos to acquire it wherever they could. The new platform was supposed to be the first of many in the Californian coastal region.

Ru took out his binoculars, which could switch to infrared scan. A dark chopper swooped around the platform, and he spotted a patrol boat. The Americans took security seriously, and the oil companies used reliable Blacksand mercenaries for the job.

First signaling to the others, Ru submerged once more. It was a long swim. He heard the motor first as a tiny sound. The sound grew as he neared the giant oil rig. According to his briefing, the patrol boats carried armed mercenaries and heavy machine guns. In addition, the patrol boats were equipped with APS radar. Normally it was used as a fish-finder, but for a short distance, it could detect swimmers.

Ru headed down into the darkness: down, down, down. Flicking on a heel-light, Ru looked back. Other heel-lights appeared, three of them. With a nod, Ru resumed his dive. The temperature became steadily colder. Even after years of training, this was an uneasy experience, the knowledge that hired killers patrolled above, seeking to find and destroy him.

Ru and the others carried high explosives, and they each had a TOZ-2 underwater pistol, which was similar in design to the SPP-1 pistol developed in the old USSR. Ordinary-shaped bullets were inaccurate underwater and extremely short-ranged. Therefore, their pistols fired a round-based 4.5mm steel dart 115mm long. Each dart weighted 12.8 grams, and each dart had a longer range and greater penetrating power than a speargun’s spear.

The TOZ-2 had four barrels, each holding one cartridge. None of the barrels was rifled. Each dart was kept in line by hydrodynamic effects, meaning that the TOZ-2 was inaccurate when fired out of the water. The deeper one dove, the less range their pistols had. The effective range out of water was fifty to sixty-six feet. In water twenty feet deep, a steel dart could kill at one hundred and thirty feet. In water fifty-six feet deep, the steel dart’s range shrank to sixteen feet.

By using his compass and rangefinder, Ru unerringly reached the oil rig. He switched on a lamp and used the light to scan the darkness. A wahoo darted before him, a scombrid fish like mackerel or tuna. Fish densities around an oil or gas platform were twenty to fifty times higher than the open water. It told Ru he was near. Then a great stanchion appeared. Although the oil rig was new, the stanchion was already encrusted with sea-growth.

Using a depth-gauge, Ru adjusted his range and used his combat knife to scrap and pry away marine-growth from the metal stanchion. Each time the blade touched, he heard a click and a scraping sound. Once he had a big enough area, Ru slipped the CHKR-57 from his chest and secured it to the stanchion. Finished, he set the timer.

They did this four times, the others securing their explosives to different stanchions.

Ru grinned. He imagined that even Kwan could manage a soft smile of victory for their success. They swam away, keeping at this deep level but heading for the rendezvous point. It was easier swimming without the explosives. Now Ru merely had to find the T-9s and then the submarine. Afterward, he would be on his way home to Shanghai and Lu May.

The sound of the American patrol boat dwindled. When all he could hear was the sound of his breathing, Ru slowly surfaced. He used his compass and rangefinder, and in time, he turned on the directional device. He waited, watching. There—a pulse from the T-9’s emitter showed on his tiny screen. With joy in his heart, Ru swam near the surface all the way there.

Soon, the four Commandos unclamped the T-9s, climbed onto the saddle-seats, and started up the propellers. The T-9s sped into the Pacific Ocean for the rendezvous point with the Pao Feng.

This time they remained on the surface, riding over the swells. The kilometers dropped away as Ru followed the compass toward the chosen heading. He was going to see Lu May again. He would see his baby girl being born and watch her grow into a fine young woman. Surely after this, the military could not ask more from him.

Lost in his thoughts, Ru was surprised as his partner dug a knuckle in his back. It took a moment as Ru turned on the speaking unit attached to his mask.

“Wei?” he shouted over his shoulder.

The man pointed left. Soldier Rank Kwan drove his T-9 beside them, water splashing up from the nosecone.

“Where’s the buoy signal?” shouted Kwan.

Ru checked his rangefinder. His eyebrows shot up. How could he have missed this? He checked the receiver set to the buoy’s signal. The captain of the submarine was supposed to have launched a buoy twenty minutes ago to guide them back. Ru double-checked the receiver. There was no light, no signal, no nothing.

“We should be over it!” Kwan shouted through his speaker.

“Cut your drive,” said Ru.

Soon, the T-9s floated together. It was still dark, the stars shining brightly overhead. It was 2:14 A.M., Pacific Time. Ru checked battery power. It was low, with maybe another thirty minutes left of drive power. As great as they were, the Japanese batteries had been the major limiting factor of their range. And despite years of low funding and neglect, the American Navy was still dangerous, one would think especially so in their territorial waters. There must be no hint of Chinese involvement to their terrorist act, the key reason why the Pao Feng had tried to remain well out of American sight.

“How long do we wait here?” a Commando asked.

“An hour and eighteen minutes,” Kwan said. “Then we must head deeper into the ocean.”

“What happened?” Ru’s partner asked.

“The patrol boat we saw earlier,” said Kwan. “The captain has strict orders not to let anyone detect the submarine. He might have left.”

Ru understood the logic to Kwan’s answer. They had all been instructed on the importance of remaining hidden. If they failed to make pick-up, they were supposed to sink the T-9s and divest themselves of every article of Chinese manufacture. That meant the TOZ-2 underwater pistols, knives, rebreathers—everything that could link them to the White Tigers. Then each Commando was supposed to swim west into deeper waters, drowning rather than accepting possible rescue from the Americans. A White Tiger Commando gave his life to China as his final act of obedience and love for his country.

Not caring for such logic, Ru repeatedly flicked the switch to the receiver. He tapped the console with his finger. “You will work, damn you,” he declared.

After shutting off the T-9s, they sat there for an hour and eighteen minutes, no one talking, all of them dreading the possibility that Kwan was right.

After the time has passed, Kwan shouted through his full-face mask’s speaker, “We are White Tigers!”

Ru looked up in desperation.

“For the greater glory of China,” said Kwan, “we must take the T-9s and drive until the batteries die. Then we will sink them and drop our tanks, belts and—”

“Bu!” shouted Ru, using his speaker.

“We serve China!” shouted Kwan. “We are White Tigers, the greatest soldiers of history!”

The fervency of Kwan’s words shocked Ru. The drill instructors of the training camps and the propagandists had done their jobs too well. China seethed with a vast population of men that was seldom softened or civilized by the presence of women. Among those teeming numbers, the White Tigers had found a fertile field for their heady notions of martial glory and devotion to country. Soldier Rank Kwan had supped deeply on those ideals as had many warriors of the past: Gurkhas, Samurais, Ninjas, Janissaries, Napoleonic Old Guards, Roman Legionaries, Spartans….

Soldier Rank Kwan drew his TOZ-2. Seeing that, Ru threw himself away from Kwan and into the sea. The pistol barked. A steel dart whizzed over Ru and slapped the water.

As he floated, Ru drew his TOZ-2 and steadied his arm over the saddle-seat of his T-9. His partner on the back seat made muffled shouts within his mask. Ru glanced up. The Commando reached over and ripped the underwater pistol out of Ru’s grasp, tossing it into the sea.

In a great Pacific Ocean swell, Ru saw Kwan rise up as the Soldier Rank balanced on his T-9. The White Tiger took aim. Then the other Commando on Kwan’s T-9 jostled the Soldier Rank’s elbow as Kwan attempted another shot. The TOZ-2 plopped into the sea.

With a roar of frustration and desperation, Ru kicked his fins, surging upward. He grasped his partner by the straps of his wetsuit. As Ru sank back into the sea—and as the swell barreled toward them—he pulled the Commando. Within his mask, the White Tiger shouted in surprise. Ru dragged his partner off the T-9, which rolled now with the power of the swell. Releasing his partner—who drifted farther away—Ru frantically fought for a purchase on the T-9. With a growl of noise within his mask, Ru heaved himself onto the vehicle.

Kwan and his partner were arguing on their T-9.

“Lu May,” whispered Ru, his chest hurting with the thought of never seeing his wife again. He pressed the starter button. With a lurch, he drove the T-9 away from Kwan and away from his own partner floating in the sea, watching him. Ru crouched low as he headed back toward the American oil rig. One way or another, he would survive. He would find a way to either slip into China or sneak Lu May out. They would be together again, a family.

A white plume splashed near. Ru twisted around. Kwan was giving chase, plowing down a swell and into the trough after him. Little flares of flame emitted from a pistol. Kwan must have taken his partner’s gun and then shoved the Commando off his T-9. Despite the pistol’s inaccuracy above water, two steel darts struck Ru’s vehicle. The darts shattered the tough ceramic-plate, and one of them must have hit something vital. Ru’s vehicle lost power.

Ru swiveled around as his T-9 slowed. Staring through the full-face mask, Kwan looked stern and resolved. He brought his T-9 closer. Then Kwan pulled the trigger…but nothing happened.

He’d already shot his last dart.

Kwan holstered his pistol, clutched the controls and aimed his T-9 at Ru’s wallowing vehicle. Ru slid off on the other side, entering the water and submerging as Kwan hit. With a cracking sound above Ru’s head, his T-9 skidded away. A bulky object showed where Soldier Rank Kwan fell in.

Ru judged the distance between them. It was too far. Kwan was already drawing his pistol to reload. Ru jackknifed and kicked down toward the depths. He propelled himself through the nearly silent sea, and he glanced back. Near the surface, Kwan shoved a fresh clip into the pistol. With fierce resolve, Ru kicked harder. He needed more depth in order to shorten the underwater pistol’s range. Looking again, Ru saw that Kwan came after him.

Something flashed past him into the depths—Ru assumed it was a steel dart. What else could it be? Two more went past. Then fiery pain burned in Ru’s thigh. He felt there with his hand, and plucked out a dart.

He’s fired four!

Ru reversed direction, kicking upward toward the silvery surface. Kwan was a blot of darkness.

He must be reloading.

Ru drew his combat knife and kicked his fins, straining to reach the White Tiger Commando. As Ru neared, a thrill of fear surged through him. Kwan snapped the underwater pistol shut. As Kwan aligned it, Ru came out of the depths like a shark. His razor-sharp knife sliced Kwan’s hand as the trigger-finger pulled. The retort was a sharp noise underwater. The steel dart hissed past Ru’s head. Then the TOZ-2 floated in a swirl of blood. Ru let go of the knife, beat Kwan to the neutral buoyancy pistol, and kicked out of the Commando’s grasp. In a moment, Ru aimed the pistol at Kwan.

Three sharp retorts sent three steel darts puncturing into Kwan. Pain creased the White Tiger’s face. Then Kwan relaxed as blood oozed from his floating, twitching corpse.

In moments, Ru surfaced. He’d hurt his arm, probably when Kwan had struck his T-9. He swam to Kwan’s wallowing craft, climbed aboard, and then continued heading east for the oil rig. He didn’t know what had happened to the others. At this point, he didn’t care.

When the T-9 ran out of battery power and stopped running, Ru slid into the water for the last time. He used his compass and rangefinder, and he began the journey back to the platform. He was under a severe time constraint. He needed to return and take the Americans down to the stanchions in order to remove the CHKR-57 before the high explosives destroyed the platform. Surely, the oil people would reward him for saving their precious product and saving their American environment. Americans were frightened of spilling oil into the sea. He had heard more than his share of “ethnic” American jokes on the subject.

His injured thigh began to throb, but it was mere pain. By enduring, he would return home to Lu May and his unborn baby. Well, he could never go home again, but there would be a way to secret her out of the country. Greater China was huge and filled with teeming millions—no one would miss a single woman.

A beep alerted him. Ru stopped and shook his head. He didn’t need the locator now. The large oil platform glittered in the darkness. He checked his watch, but it had stopped working. Kwan must have damaged it during the fight.

Ru wrinkled his brow. Would it be better to bypass the oil rig and attempt swimming all the way to the American coast? No—he was too tired. Despite his training, he had swum too far tonight to try a marathon journey to Los Angeles. So he headed for the oil rig.

Three quarters of the way there, he heard a motorboat. Ru stopped and waved his good arm. The dark blot of a boat threw up whitish-colored waves in the moonlight. They had already spotted him, or someone had. That was the reason why the Commandos had come in so deep before.

In time, as outboard engines gurgled and as a large barn-sized object thumped slowly toward him, mercenaries with automatic weapons shouted orders. Ru shouted through his speaker in Chinese, understanding their anger but not knowing their barbaric language. As they looked down at him, the mercenaries jabbered among themselves before two threw down a scaling net. Ru needed help, but with it, he soon flopped onto the boat’s deck.

A heavy man with good boots shoved him onto his back. Another used a knife and cut away the full-face mask. The heavy man placed a heel on Ru’s chest. The mercenary poked him with the barrel-tip of an automatic weapon. The man spoke more gibberish.

“Hong!” said Ru, and he used his good hand, trying to pantomime what would happen. Didn’t anyone here speak Chinese? Ru found their lack amazing.

The mercenaries jabbered again, angrily, as the patrol boat moved faster. It thumped across the seawater, a bumpy ride and loud, too, as they headed for the oil rig. The man with the automatic weapon poked it harder against Ru’s sternum as he repeated his words. Ru heard certain similarities now in the barbaric speech, but still couldn’t understand what they asked.

“Hong!” said Ru, sweeping his arm. “Hong, hong—baozha. Wo hui shuoming nin na zhe tingzhi.” He needed to let them know while there was still time to save the platform. Surely they could understand what he was trying to say.

Several of the Anglo mercenaries traded glances with each other. Two of them stared at the nearing platform.

“Baozha,” said Ru.

With a steel-toed boot, the heavy man with the automatic weapon kicked him in the head. The next thing Ru knew, the patrol boat motored toward a large elevator in the oil platform. The thing was like a Shanghai skyscraper in its towering monstrosity. It throbbed with life, big wheels and gears moving. To Ru it seemed like a hungry dragon, waiting to devour him. He groaned. He was trying to save the Americans and they attacked him. How could they be so stupid?

“Baozha,” Ru said weakly.

That started the mercenaries arguing again. To Ru, they were pointing fingers everywhere. He wanted to sleep, but if he did that, he’d never see Lu May again. Why had the Party leaders who preached about honor broken their word and sent him back onto the frontline? That was wrong. Lu May—

It was then the CHKR-57 detonated. Water geysered upward. Anglo mercenaries howled, bringing up their weapons. Ru lay on the patrol boat’s deck, his head hurting. It looked to him as if the entire oil rig was leaning, as if it was moving and toppling.

Then he realized it was.

“Lu May,” he whispered. “I love you, my—”

Ru never finished his words, as his world ended with the destruction of Platform Number Seven. Falling jagged metal pierced his chest. He knew a moment of scalding pain, and then everything went blank as he died. The same metallic shard tore a hole in the patrol boat.

The boat sank as Blacksand mercenaries jumped into the water, shouting and thrashing to get away. They didn’t. Mighty Platform Seven crashed on them, sucking many under as it sank down into the sea. Several years ago, Platform Seven had been heralded as the new, great hope for California Oil and America’s insatiable energy appetite. Now the great hope was gushing crude, blazing fire and spreading death.