Invasion: Alaska

-3- Plans

Two old friends played ping-pong downstairs in a basement. They’d first met in college many years ago, both of them highly competitive at intramural sports. They had double-dated then and ended up marrying their girls. Both had stayed in Alaska where they had gone on many hunting and fishing trips together. They were like brothers, and even in their early forties, they were just as competitive as they had been two decades ago.

Stan Higgins was a high school history teacher. He supplemented his sparse income as a captain in the Alaskan National Guard. His nickname was Professor, and he had read far too much military history for his own good.

Besides being a pastor, the second man, Bill Harris, was a sergeant in the local Militia. The Militia was a recent development due to limited Federal funding and the continuing shrinkage of the U.S. military. The Militia was voluntary, the men paying for their own weapons and uniforms. They mustered under their state’s control and had National Guard drill instruction every summer for those who wished for advanced training. Bill was one of those. The states with the largest Militias per capita were Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and Alaska. The three southern states had large Militias due to the proximity of the Mexican border; Alaska did because so many of the state’s population were hunters and fishermen.

Stan used his ping-pong paddle and bounced an orange ball up and down. Bill stood at the other end of the green table, waiting. The single bulb above the middle of the table flickered as the light dimmed. Brownouts were common these days and electrical grid repairs constant.

“Think the lights will stay on tonight?” Bill asked.

Stan grunted noncommittally. They had played four games of ping-pong already, tying at two wins each. Their wives talked upstairs as the children played board games.

“Just a minute,” Bill said. He moved to a shelf and checked his cell phone. “It’s getting late. Should we call it?”

The bulb stopped flickering then as the light strengthened.

“We can’t leave the series at a tie,” Stan said.

Bill nodded. “It’s more fun with a winner. Since this is the last game, should we volley for serve?”

“I lost the last game. Loser gets first serve next game.”

“Oh, okay,” said Bill, with an at-least-I-tried grin.

Stan kept bouncing the ball on his paddle. There was a distracted look on his face. He had been trying to forget about his dilemma all night. Trying to beat Bill had done that, but now…

“Is anything wrong?” asked Bill.

Stan nodded. “It’s Sergeant Jackson.”

“The police officer?”

“I think he wants to bust my dad.” Then the words gushed out as Stan asked, “Is it wrong to hold a grudge?”

“Do you mean is it wrong for the officer to hold a grudge against your dad? Or is it wrong for you to hold a grudge against the officer?”

Stan looked up, letting the ping-pong ball bounce off the table and onto the floor.

“Bitterness never helps anyone,” Bill said.

“I know.”

“You need to forgive Sergeant Jackson for what he did to your dad.”

Stan scowled. “I understand what you’re saying….” He shook his head.

“Well, think of it like—”

“I’m sorry,” said Stan, as the bulb flickered again. “It’s late. We’d better finish the series before the power cuts off.” He retrieved the orange ball and took his serving stance.

“I know this can be a hard topic,” Bill said.

Stan didn’t want to think about it anymore. He should have known Bill would tell him to give his worry to God. Now Bill would start talking about it. Stan decided to put an end to the lecture by serving the ball, using a crafty spin.

Surprised by the serve, Bill moved too late. He still managed to hit the ball, but it zoomed into the net.

“One to zero,” Stan said.

Bill glanced at him. “One to zero,” he said, his voice changing from its reflective pastor’s tone to his competitive voice. Then the two friends began to play in earnest.

Jian Hong rode in the back of a limousine as he passed big Chinese cars. City traffic moved past massive buildings in the heart of Beijing. The construction boom had altered the city. The rich lived in palaces, sprawling villas with gold inlaid marble, redwood furniture and magnificent gardens. The latest craze was having a zoo on one’s property, with tigers, leopards, pandas, baboons—Jian had recently purchased a polar bear. He was inordinately proud of it and hoped to buy a male so he could mate them.

The heart of Beijing possessed titanic structures, showing the opulence of oil-rich China. It was a tribute to the nation’s greatness, to its power. Above the massive structures was the even larger Mao Square with the Politburo Building and the Chairman’s quarters. Glass towers reflected the sun’s light, while gigantic statues beggared the imagination. The Chairman had a mania for architecture. He wanted to show the world and China’s millions that nothing could compare with the present government. The construction boom flowered throughout China’s coastal region, particularly here in Beijing.

The big cars manufactured in Chinese automotive plants moved along wide avenues as hordes surged along the extra-large sidewalks. Beijing had become the mightiest city on Earth.

Jian witnessed this, but he enjoyed none of it as his security personnel escorted him to Mao Square. He was late for a meeting with the Chairman, a meeting that could well decide his fate in the world.

Jian Hong hurried into a large room on the third floor of the Chairman’s governmental quarters. Huge paintings of former chairmen hung on the walls, beginning with Mao Zedong and ending with the present ruler of Greater China. They were painted in a heroic style. The portrait of the present Chairman showed a strong, youthful man with a wild shock of hair and an outthrust chin. It had little in common with the old man in the wheelchair sitting at the head of the table.

Jian nodded a greeting to the Minister of the Navy, an old admiral with a bald dome. Compared to the Chairman, the admiral was an example of youthful vigor.

The Chairman’s chin presently touched his chest and his eyes were closed. His withered hands rested on his lap, one covered by a plaid blanket. The formerly wild hair was combed to the right, and it was much thinner, showing patches of skull. A degenerative disease had been eating away at his strength for years now, radically altering a once hard-charging dictator. In earlier days, the Chairman had re-forged the old Communist Party into the Socialist-Nationalist organ that now swelled with the pride of nearly two billion Chinese. His vision had led the country through the terrible crises of 2019—the fact that it had been the Chairman’s guiding hand in 2016 that caused China to unload her U.S. Bonds had been carefully weeded from the history books. That maneuver had brought about the American banking and stock market collapse, which in turn had started the Sovereign Debt Depression throughout the world. That worldwide shock had, in turn, brought about the crises of 2019 in China.

Despite his role in causing it, under the Chairman’s brilliance, China had emerged from the Sovereign Debt Depression as the most powerful nation on Earth. He had led them in the swift but profitable war against Siberia, then in the orgasmic Invasion of Taiwan, and lastly in forging the Pan Asian League. Wresting Japan from America’s military orbit had been his greatest diplomatic coup.

The Chairman snored softly at the head of the table, gnome-like in appearance, but still holding the reins of power in his arthritic hands. His security personnel surrounded the building, hard-eyed killers chosen for their loyalty and willingness to murder anyone that the Chairman indicated. Ruthless secret policemen backed them. Those policemen used computers, truth serums and secret chambers to tear needed information from suspects. In the majority of cases, however, the Chairman used a velvet glove in his dealings. His deftness had won him much. But the iron was still there, as was the willingness to crush any opponent.

Like the others, Jian Hong feared the Chairman. Jian wondered, as surely the others must, if the degenerative disease might one day cause the Chairman to institute a bloodbath as Mao had done during the Cultural Revolution in the 1960s. Despite the fear, Jian and the others attempted to maneuver the dying old man toward their particular projects. The Chairmen had become like an emperor from a bygone era, with Deng Fong as his prime minister and the others vying to gain the Chairman’s ear.

“Your tardiness surely indicates the contempt you feel toward the rest of us, Agricultural Minister,” Deng said.

“I beg your pardon,” Jian said. He’d had trouble at one of the checkpoints. It dawned on him that Deng might have engineered the trouble. The possibility put an icicle of renewed fear through Jian. Had Deng corrupted the Chairman’s bodyguards? Was Deng broadcasting his ability to assassinate the Chairman at his leisure? Jian wondered if he might have been wiser going to Deng in secret, falling on his knees and begging to become one of his followers.

Who am I to race with tigers? Jian thought to himself. These past weeks had been torture, as two more rice-riots had occurred in different parts of the country. Jian had maneuvered hard to keep his post, secretly using the last of his hidden food reserves to bolster stocks in the cities. In several months, real famine would stalk the inner provinces. They must find more sources of food.

In the old days before the new glacial period, the Earth’s food supply had come from two major areas: the great Euro-Russian plains and the American wheat-fields. China’s rice paddies had helped, as had other regions. But the bulk of the food supply to feed the masses, the world’s billions, came from the two key areas. With the new glaciation, the Gulf Stream had changed its flow, causing massive freezing on the Euro-Russian plains, but America was still blessed with warm enough weather to produce bumper crops. It meant that a starving world looked to America and to its Grain Union allies. It meant that Chinese wealth could only scrape up so much food on the open market—then it needed the Grain Union’s storehouses, which meant China needed American permission to buy.

Deng Fong stirred. He did not look like a tiger. He was in his mid-seventies and had a weak left eye that he could barely keep open. He wore a black suit of the finest make and had strangely smooth skin. It was one of Deng’s vanities—skin-tucks. Stories about his sexual exploits were legendary, as were the amounts of his testosterone injections and Viagra with which he was said to indulge himself. He looked old, but still acted with vitality.

Jian turned on his computer, the machine built into the table. He knew that one of the Chairman’s people would analyze everything he brought up, everything he read. The Chairman loved psychological profiles, placing an inordinate trust in them. Therefore, Jian had memorized a list of “safe” items he would look up here, items given to him by his staff.

Deng cleared his throat, the sound aimed toward the head of the table. He sat nearest the Chairman. The Chairman snorted, and his eyelids flickered. Slowly, the old man opened his eyes, and just as slowly, the Chairman straightened his body. Everyone here knew it pained the old man to sit up straight. They could see it on his face. But he did it anyway, refusing to hunch, and that frightened Jian. The Chairman examined each of them in turn. There were four other Politburo members in the room. They belonged to the Ruling Committee, the Chairman’s inner circle of advisors. When the old man’s eyes fell on him, Jian felt the gaze like hot pokers in his soul.

Jian’s key ally was the Minister of the Navy, Admiral Qiang—tall, handsome, and still athletic at seventy-one. He was easily the most adventuresome personality in the room in terms of military action.

Qiang and Deng were bitter enemies.

“Sir,” Deng told the Chairman. “I’m afraid that I have terrible news to report.”

The Chairman swiveled his head so those hot eyes locked onto Deng Fong.

“Sir,” Deng said, “I am afraid that we have taken a viper amongst us. We have trusted a warmonger who plans to tread on the charred remains of a billion corpses so he can climb to supreme power.”

“Elaborate,” whispered the Chairman.

The whispery dry words tightened Jian’s stomach, and suddenly, the room felt much too warm.

Deng bowed his head and turned toward Jian, staring at him fixedly. “There is one among us who sabotaged my talks in Sydney. I believe he did it in hopes of stirring war. This war will cover his negligent mistakes in the agricultural sector. He would rather see millions die in a nuclear exchange than have his corrupt mishandling brought to light.”

“These are serious charges,” the Chairman whispered.

Jian now felt limp with fear as Deng turned to the old man in the wheelchair. Jian hadn’t expected a direct and personal assault today. Even more, he hadn’t expected Deng to bypass Admiral Qiang in his admonishments. That had been part of the genius of Jian’s plan, or so he’d told himself more than once. Admiral Qiang had authorized the commando mission against the American oil well. Jian had hoped to use the admiral as a shield as Qiang bore the brunt of Deng’s verbal assault. Now—

“The Agricultural Minister used his insidious and occult powers to warp Admiral Qiang’s good judgment,” Deng was saying. “He lured the admiral and tricked him into committing an adventurous and foolhardy act at precisely the wrong moment. The destruction of the American oil well occurred in the early morning, twelve hours before I would speak alone with the American Secretary of State. It sabotaged what I believe would have been a healing accord between our two nations. The Americans have grain. We have oil. The Americans need oil and we need grain. What better way to bring harmony between our two nations than trading oil for grain?”

You didn’t count on me learning about your plan, you cunning snake, Jian thought. Deng would have been the hero, bringing grain to a hungry nation. He would die as the failed Agricultural Minister. No, he had a different plan, one he worked hard to implement.

“Please excuse my interruption,” Jian said. “With your permission, sir,” he said to the Chairman, “I would like to point out certain salient points that Minister Fong has conveniently forgotten.”

The Chairman’s head swiveled slightly so those ancient eyes fell onto Jian. Again, Jian felt the power there, and knew now that his life was in peril.

“Speak,” the Chairman whispered in his ancient voice, “but make it brief.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jian said. His voice sounded weak. He would never convince anyone if he came across as timid. Sitting straighter, clearing his throat, he spoke in a deeper tone, trying to come across as assured. “Three years ago, at Minister Fong’s insistence, I took over the Agricultural Ministry.”

“You snatched at the opportunity for power,” Deng said. “You acted like a monkey in a panda tree.”

“Let him speak,” said the Chairman.

Deng bowed his head.

Jian blinked in amazement. Deng’s inappropriate words gave him confidence, and with the rebuff from the Chairman—Jian felt his hopes soar. Then he wondered if the rebuff might have been engineered beforehand to give the appearance of fairness on the Chairman’s part. The thought was sobering, and it constricted his throat.

Jian lifted a glass of water, sipping, trying to marshal his thoughts. “As I was saying, sir—gentlemen—I took over the Agricultural Ministry at Minister Fong’s insistence. It was hoped I could turn around the disastrous failures of the previous years. I worked with painstaking zeal, routinely putting in sixteen-hour workdays. I tried many experiments. The sad truth is that nature has conspired against China. Glaciation combined with our great population has made self-sufficiency in foodstuffs an impossibility. It is the same everywhere as famine stalks the planet. Only a few nations export grain or other foods. Occidentals of European origin control each of the grain-exporting nations. They have formed a union—”

“These things are known to us,” Deng said. “Sir—”

“Let him speak,” the Chairman said. “You have laid the charge. Now let him defend himself—if he can.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jian said. “My point is that these barbarians have long conspired against China. In our days of weakness, they carved our glorious nation into separate spheres of influence. It was you, sir, who finally brought the last of our stolen lands home. We are strong again, the strongest nation on Earth. Can any of us truly believe that the Anglo nations will accept this and roll onto their backs for us?”

“You are deluded,” Deng said. “The Western powers gave up their chauvinism long ago. This is the nuclear age—”

“China needs fear no nuclear attack!” Jian said forcefully, banging his fist on the table. “We have the most modern anti-ballistic missile and laser defense system in the world. If the Americans dare launch their ballistic missiles, our defensive systems will knock them down. Then they would lie supine before us, dreading our missiles that could rain upon them with impunity.”

“How does destroying the American breadbasket help China?” Deng asked.

“It doesn’t,” admitted Jian. “I merely point out the ludicrous idea that America, or any other nation, can threaten China with nuclear weapons.” He pointedly glanced at Admiral Qiang and the Police Minister, yearning for their verbal support.

Xiao Yang, the Police Minister, was lean. He wore thick glasses and possessed strangely staring eyes. He gave Jian a nearly imperceptible nod of encouragement. The man’s eyes seemed to shine behind the thick glasses, but he didn’t say anything. Admiral Qiang seemed lost in thought, perhaps not even listening to the argument.

“You viper,” Deng said. “You mouth war when peace can serve us better. The Americans were about to increase their grain exports as we ship them more oil.”

“Do you trust these Americans?” Jian asked. “Aren’t you aware of their new space program? They aren’t foolishly attempting to land men on Mars or return to the Moon. Instead, they are building a laser launch-site. They are on the cusp of building a system to put items into space at a cheap cost per ton. With it, they will build a Solar Powered Satellite that collects the sun’s rays and micro-beam the free energy to Earth. It is the next step in industrial power.”

“It already changes our weather patterns,” Police Minister Xiao said.

Deng glanced at the Police Minister before he said, “You both spout folly.”

“Do you deny the fact of their space program?” asked Jian. He hoped Xiao didn’t say anything about Henry Wu, the supposed CIA agent. It had helped sway Admiral Qiang earlier, but it wouldn’t help here.

“Our technologists are hard at work on a similar space system,” Deng said. “This is all beside the point.”

“If the Americans build enough of these satellites,” Jian said, “they will no longer need our oil. What then shall we trade for their badly needed grain?”

Deng stared at Jian before he turned to the Chairman. “He confuses the issue, a tactic he has perfected as Agricultural Minister.”

The Chairman nodded slowly. “Make your point, Jian Hong.”

Even as the small hairs prickled on the back of Jian’s neck, he spoke out strongly. “Now is the moment to strike, sir. Now is the time to fix the American food market in our favor—forever.”

“By destroying oil platforms?” the Chairman asked sarcastically.

The old man’s eyes seemed like twin lasers stabbing into Jian’s heart. He took a deep breath. This was coming on much faster than he had planned. Jian wished Admiral Qiang or Xiao would speak up in his defense. Unfortunately, like everyone else, they were afraid of the Chairman. Maybe they were also afraid of Deng Fong. In that moment, Jian realized that he must lead the other two, and to lead them, he would have to persuade the old man in the wheelchair.

“Sir, if I may,” Jian said, “I’d like to point out the example of Cheng Ho.” He knew the Chairman loved the history of Cheng Ho. The dictator kept a large model of one of the medieval sailing ships on the bottom floor of the Politburo Building.

Cheng Ho had been an admiral in Chinese history. He had explored the Indian Ocean and the eastern coast of Africa several decades before the Europeans crawled down the African coast in the other direction. Cheng Ho’s ships and fleet had been huge, especially when compared to the Portuguese ships of the day. Due to Chinese inwardness and other political factors, the emperor recalled Cheng Ho and forbade further marine exploration. Thus, the Europeans had “discovered” and eventually conquered the East instead of the East discovering the West.

Deng laughed. It was a triumphant sound. He glanced at the Chairman. “I believe that our Agricultural Minister has become unhinged. What does medieval history have to do with blowing up oil wells or hoping to start a nuclear war?”

“You are incorrect,” Jian said. “The oil rig was destroyed in order to strengthen China’s hand.”

“Do you believe we are fools?” Deng said. “You did it to sabotage my talks. Can you truly think the Americans will back down as we destroy their oil industry? If you want historical examples, I will give you one from the last century: Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and thereby brought about their empire’s destruction.”

“Are you so afraid of the Americans that you fear they will destroy China?” Jian asked.

Xiao gave another of his nearly imperceptible nods of encouragement.

If only the Police Minister would speak openly, leaving out any of his fantastical nonsense, Jian thought.

“Once the Americans discover we destroyed the platform,” Deng said, “they may begin destroying our offshore wells in turn.”

“Our navy is superior to the deteriorated American Fleet,” Jian said. “If they dared such attacks, we would hunt down their ships and sink them on sight.”

“You are quite wrong,” Deng said. “Study history. No English-speaking nation has lost a naval war in five hundred years.”

Admiral Qiang frowned as he began to shake his head.

Xiao’s nostrils flared.

Seeing these things, Jian asked in seeming disbelief, “Do you truly pour such contempt upon the Chinese Navy?”

“It is not a matter of contempt,” Deng said. “Reality must guide us. American submarines are still better than ours. Yes, the Debt Depression and secessionist unrest has hurt them. Their defense expenditures are but a ghost of their former outlays. But their navy is still formidable, quite possibly a match for ours.”

“Then why didn’t the Americans face us off the shores of Taiwan?” asked Jian. “During the reunification, their vaunted Pacific Fleet sailed to Hawaii, afraid of our massed fleet.”

“They were afraid of our land-based attack craft and Yuan ship-killers,” Deng said. “Our air armada dwarfed anything they could muster near Taiwan.”

“I would have silence,” whispered the Chairman.

Jian had been about to retort. Now he closed his mouth as he felt his heart hammering. Deng glanced at the old man before nodding.

The Chairman leaned forward, with his elbows on the table. He breathed heavily, and there was anger in his eyes.

“Agricultural Minister,” the Chairman asked, “have you been speaking with Admiral Qiang?”

“Sir?” asked Jian.

“Do not practice your evasiveness with me, young man. Have you plotted with the admiral?”

“I have spoken with him concerning our mutual distrust of the Americans, sir.”

“You are testing my patience, Jian Hong.”

Jian reached for his water glass and noticed that his fingers shook. He quickly put his hand on the table.

“Did you suggest to the admiral that he launch the attack on the American oil facility?” the Chairman asked.

Jian’s mouth opened, but no words issued.

“He did, sir,” Admiral Qiang said in his gravely voice.

Deng slammed a fist on the table. “I knew it!” In the growing silence, Deng’s head swayed back as he glanced at the watching Chairman. “Please forgive my outburst, sir,” Deng said. “It was ill considered.”

The Chairman’s head swiveled so he stared once more at Jian. “Tell me why you would do such a thing, Agricultural Minister. Why step so far out of your bounds?”

Jian bowed his head. Here was the moment. Now he was on the edge of life and death. Choosing his words with care, he said, “I am convinced that the Energy Minister has taken China on a false path, sir.”

“A path that I sanctioned,” the Chairman whispered angrily.

Knowing that he could find himself hustled out of the room in the next few minutes, frog-marched by killers and possibly placed before a firing squad, Jian still forced himself to argue. He had little to lose now. “Sir, we cannot feed ourselves. I know this better than anyone.”

“You have failed to improve the agricultural industry,” Deng sneered. “That’s all you are saying. For that, you should be shot.”

Jian caught the Chairman’s angry glance at Deng. It was tactless to interrupt the old man. In former days, it would have brought terrible punishment. Clearly, the Chairman was beginning to resent these interruptions.

“Sir,” Jian said, making his voice contrite. “If you would allow me to answer that baseless charge…?”

“…speak,” whispered the Chairman.

Deng’s surprise at the permission emboldened Jian. “You are a clever man, Energy Minister. You slyly maneuvered me into accepting my present post. You promised to aid me and stand by my side if I would only attack the food problem with my customary zeal. I use your own words, not my own. Now I wonder if you secretly feared me and encouraged me to tackle a problem that no one can solve. China needs the Grain Union, or it needs the foodstuffs they so treacherously horde for their own use. You counsel us to go to them hat in hand, hoping to gain their good will. But life does not progress in that manner. The truth of history is that the strong survive and the weak fade away. We must cripple America and force them to trade to our benefit and at our call. That is the only long-term solution worthy of the greatest power on Earth.”

“War?” asked Deng.

“You make it sound as if I counsel a nuclear exchange, which is madness. I’m speaking about a limited war with limited goals, such as the Chairman achieved in Siberia and Taiwan.”

“War against America?” asked Deng. “Do you think us so superior to them that we can land in California and take their best farmlands through swift armor assaults?”

“You are adept at building a straw man and easily knocking him down,” Jian said. “No one here suggests what you just said. I spoke about a limited war. Our marshal and admiral are quite familiar with the subject. They have practiced war-games concerning it many times. I suggest a swift invasion of Alaska, the last great oil-bearing region of America. Once we own it, we will possess the Arctic Ocean oil basin and control the great Prudhoe Bay fields. With Alaska in our possession, the Americans will be at our mercy in energy terms. We will then ship them their own oil for massive imports of grain. The food rationing here will end and our Party’s power will rest secure for another generation at least. There will be no more rice riots and no more ugly executions in police basements.”

The people in the rich cities on the coast had already become accustomed to bread and other foodstuffs made by grain. Those in the interior still primarily ate rice. It would take time to accustom them to bread. But it was inevitable that they learn because the rice harvests were smaller each year.

“I’ve heard enough,” Deng said. “You spout madness. Invade Alaska? The Americans aren’t Siberians. They own a continent, not a tiny island like Taiwan. You cannot simply rip Alaska out of their grasp and hope the conflict ends there. World Wars have started on lesser pretexts.”

“No one thinks Americans are Siberians or Taiwanese,” Jian said. “But I don’t think you’ve studied their present force levels with a critical eye.”

“And you, as Agricultural Minister, have?” Deng sneered.

“The Debt Depression badly weakened their navy,” Jian said. “They’ve decommissioned countless vessels and hardly purchased any new hardware. Added to that, they are experiencing continuing secessionist trouble, and along with the Mexico Situation, it means they dare not commit their army units elsewhere in any force.” Jian nodded in the admiral’s direction. “I have spoken with Admiral Qiang and we’ve talked about his strategists’ plan to cripple the American Fleet before the start of hostilities.”

“What plan?” the Chairman asked, swiveling his gaze onto the admiral.

Reluctantly, it seemed, Admiral Qiang explained the plan.

“An interesting concept,” the Chairman whispered after Admiral Qiang had fallen silent.

“Sir,” Deng said. “This all sounds like unadvised adventurism. The admiral’s so-called bold plan is nothing more than a terrorist assault on a large scale. If it fails—”

“Why should it fail?” asked Jian. “The White Tigers are the foremost Special Forces in the world. Their record of success is spotless.”

“Sir?” Deng said.

Everyone in the room turned to the Chairman. He had a far-off look as he stared at some distant point. He blinked slowly as he regarded the others. “On the cusp of the Siberian Invasion years ago, there were those who told me I was too adventuresome,” he told Deng.

Jian closed his eyes as his stomach continued to seethe. His profilers had told him the Chairman still dreamt of military glory. It was something that always seemed to pull on conquerors: one more roll of fate’s dice. The Chairman’s name was intimately linked with the victories in Siberia and Taiwan. Surely, the idea of matching strength and wits against the formerly mighty Americans appealed to the Chairman’s vanity. Jian’s plan counted on it.

“Come gentlemen,” Deng implored. “Am I wrong in suggesting that war with America is against our national interests?”

The marshal stirred. He was the Army Chief of Staff and the Army Minister. He had strangely sculptured features and smooth skin. He was eighty, used botox injections, and had artistic leanings. He was known to be cautious, one who loved building an army but feared to use it.

He bowed his head in the Chairman’s direction before saying, “We would need time to prepare, sir. Some of our most capable units are stationed in Siberia and Taiwan. An Alaskan invasion would demand complete control of the sea. If the Navy can guarantee passage and keep the supply lanes open, it would be possible. I would think eight months preparation—”

“What about a cross-polar attack against Prudhoe Bay?” Jian asked. “Most of the needed units are already in position, or nearly so. We have the trains to bring them to the forward areas. Some of these formations are already in Siberia. It would take two weeks at most to bring them into readiness for a swift polar assault. Even before that, you could begin pre-positioning the needed supplies onto the ice.”

Sputtering, the marshal asked, “Where did you learn this? These are highly confidential matters.”

“I am a member of the Ruling Committee,” Jian said. “Tell me. Do you deny these things?”

“I deny nothing,” the marshal said. “I want to know how you learned of them.”

“Are the ice-mobile formations ready?” asked Jian.

“No, not as you suggest,” the marshal said.

“How long until they are?” asked Jian.

“I will not sit here and be quizzed by a failed Agricultural Minister,” the marshal told the others.

“Answer his question,” the Chairman said.

The elderly marshal of China sat back in surprise. “Sir?” he asked.

“Answer the question,” the Chairman repeated. “How long until the ice-mobile formations are ready?”

“Sir,” said the marshal, blinking rapidly, “…two months, maybe more.”

Jian pushed a button and on his screen appeared a force readiness chart. “If you gentlemen will bring my information onto your screens, you’ll see that the marshal has exaggerated. We have the needed ice-mobile units in position now, or nearly so. They could begin crossing the Arctic Ocean in six days at the soonest or two weeks at the most.”

The marshal touched his screen and he glared at what he saw.

“No, no,” he said. “The charts show the needed force for a probing raid. What Minister Hong is suggesting would take an invasion force.”

“The formations in position would be more than enough to occupy the oilfields,” Jian said.

“Preposterous!” said the marshal. “Firstly, army units are not like combine drivers during a harvest. Intense training is needed. Secondly—”

“While I respect your military acumen,” Jian said, “I must point out that our Chairman practiced a different style of warfare against Siberia and Taiwan. Each time, he launched an assault before our enemies suspected anything. He gained the greatest of all assets in war: strategic surprise. If we launch in two weeks, we will easily catch America and the world by surprise, and therefore we shall succeed. To do as you’re suggesting—to train, mass and wait for the perfect moment—is to wish for failure by alerting our enemies. We would certainly be stronger by gathering our strength, but our foe would also be that much stronger and waiting for our attack.”

“You are drunk,” the marshal said. “This is madness.”

“I speak about facts and you hurl insults,” Jian said. “Tell me. Was the Chairman drunk when we invaded Siberia?”

“Sir,” the marshal said quickly. “I meant no insult concerning your amazing exploits.”

The Chairman had been following the exchange. He now asked Admiral Qiang, “Earlier, the marshal spoke about supplies for his troops. Could you guarantee open sea-lanes to Alaska?”

“There are no guarantees in war,” the admiral said carefully.

The words were like a stab in Jian’s chest. What was this, betrayal? Thirty-eight days ago, the admiral had agreed to his plan. Was he backing out now?

“Without such guarantees, I am against such adventurism,” the marshal said.

The Chairman scowled.

“We wouldn’t necessarily need Army help,” the admiral said in the ensuing silence. “My naval infantry brigades could capture Alaska.”

Jian felt hope again, and he wondered what game the admiral played.

“This is yet more folly,” Deng said.

“Not necessarily,” said Admiral Qiang. “The Agricultural Minister makes an interesting point.”

“Which is what?” Deng asked.

“A swift assault, strategic surprise,” Admiral Qiang said. “As the Chairman surely knows, we are three days from a large-scale naval exercise.”

Deng slapped the table. “Sir, here is evidence that both the Agricultural Minister and the admiral have conspired against you.”

“Explain,” whispered the Chairman.

“Are we to believe that this naval exercise just happens to be occurring now?” asked Deng. “It would have been planned months in advance. The needed logistics and preparations—”

“I am well aware of what it entails to launch a large-scale naval exercise,” the Chairman said. “What is your point?”

“Sir, I believe they timed their commando mission to thwart my trip to Sydney so they could begin this war with America, using the naval exercise as a blind.”

“When did you plan your trip to Sydney?” Jian asked in seeming innocence.

Deng glared at him.

“Hmm,” the Chairman said. “You told me of your plan five weeks ago, Deng. Instead of secretive plotting by your comrades, I think that fate has given us a golden opportunity. Strategic surprise is a rare and valued thing. If we move quickly now, we shall catch the Americans and the world with their pants around their ankles.” The Chairman turned to Admiral Qiang. “The oil-bearing regions around ANWR and Prudhoe Bay—could the Navy secure those, too?”

“Possibly, sir,” Admiral Qiang said. “When I spoke earlier I meant securing the major Alaskan cities and ports, particularly Anchorage. Fully half the Alaskan population lives in and around metropolitan Anchorage. Capture it, and the State will naturally fall to us.”

“You wouldn’t need Navy guarantees for open sea-lanes if you only made the polar attack,” Jian told the marshal. “You could use the ice-mobile units now in Siberia, possibly with an addition of a few specialist formations.”

“I demand to know how you’ve learned about the polar assault war-game plans,” the marshal repeated. “They are top secret and of recent design. Few in the Army even know about them.”

It was through the Police Minister, but Jian wasn’t going to tell anyone that. There were highly patriotic generals on the marshal’s planning staff. Some of them were spies for the Security Bureau—the Police. Jian simply stared at the old marshal and shrugged.

The marshal sputtered.

“I do not believe what I’m hearing,” Deng said. “Jian Hong has jeopardized our nation by his interference in military matters. His urging of the destruction of the American oil well sabotaged us at the most critical moment in Sydney. The Americans will never give us preferred status now for wheat and corn purchases.”

“Then we must show them the Chinese fist,” Jian said. “The Americans are like an aging woman who still possesses charms. A few sharp slaps across the face will teach this woman her place.”

“Spoken, no doubt, as a practiced rapist,” Deng said.

“Your mockery of Chinese military power has not gone unnoticed, Deng Fong,” Jian said, ignoring the insult.

“I only mock your plans,” Deng said. “It is either the ravings of a lunatic or the desperation of a guilty man.”

“So a few frightened men dared to say about our honored Chairman before he sent troops into Siberia,” Jian said. “The Chairman’s courage has richly rewarded China. What will our courage here now give us?”

“Siberia was weak and Russia was an ailing power then,” Deng said.

“You have a vicious soul to denigrate our Chairman’s foresight and courage,” Jian said. “Only our glorious Chairman had the manliness to deal with the problem directly by unleashing our military might. The Northeastern Area was finally returned to China after too many years in Russia’s dirty grip. The nation wept with joy, and we gained the vast Siberian oilfields.”

“You carried China on your shoulders, sir,” Deng told the Chairman. “No one here denigrates your noble deeds. But suppose we capture Alaska and still the Americans refuse to sell us grain? Then what have we gained?”

“Your rhetorical tricks won’t blind us today,” Jian said. “We would turn the wheel, cutting off their oil. Many of their industries would grind to a stop. Their cars would lie idle and there would be a revolution in America, as everyone understands their love affair with motor vehicles.”

“I am not convinced you’re right,” Deng said. “The Americans have learned how to clean coal, and they have massive reserves of it. Lack of oil would also spur them quicker into space and construction of the Solar Powered Satellites.”

“That all lies well in the future,” Jian said. “We may not have that future if our people riot from lack of rice.”

“All brought about because of your amateur meddling in foreign affairs,” Deng said with heat.

“No!” Jian said, “For I’ve learned the lesson of Cheng Ho. Chinese greatness depends on our acting forcefully now that the scepter of world power has once again been laid in our hand. It is time to usher in an era of worldwide Chinese civilization. All we must do is act quickly—act with strategic surprise as the Chairman has shown us twice before.”

“No,” Deng said. “War with America would be a grave error.”

“Comrade Deng,” the Chairman whispered, “tell us where we shall gain the extra foodstuffs now that America has closed its doors to us? Without massive imports, the people will riot. Such rioting could topple us from power. Jian Hong is correct in pointing that out.”

Deng blinked several times. “Perhaps secret protocols with Australia—”

“Don’t you understand that the Anglo-run powers plan to use grain to regain their preeminence?” asked Jian. “In their days of glory, they stole the best farmlands from indigenous peoples. Now they use those farmlands against the rest of the world. Must we go begging to them for food? Must we attempt to gain their goodwill when we possess the greatest army and navy in history?”

“War is a gamble,” Deng said, “as Admiral Qiang just reminded us several minutes ago. There are no guarantees.”

“Leaving a seething volcano of hungry people under us is a greater gamble,” Jian said. He believed it was wiser for him to point this out than to let anyone else do it. In this way, he seemed like a strong man, unafraid of the consequences of his failed farm policies. “China is rich,” he said, “but we are hungry. Now the Anglo-heathens refuse to sell us grain. Very well, we shall force them to sell it by taking American oil. I see no other way, other than to crawl on our knees to them and kiss their feet. Do you wish to kiss their feet, Deng Fong?”

“I wish for peace,” Deng said.

“And a rice revolt?” asked Jian.

“This revolt would not have occurred if you could have grown enough rice,” Deng said.

“No one could have grown enough rice during an ice age,” Jian said. “A bold military thrust into Alaska shall change everything. It will save our Party and save China.”

“Sir,” Deng said, turning to the Chairman. “Let me examine the situation in detail. I will report back to you.”

“As the people seethe and their bellies rumble?” Jian asked.

“We have the police and army,” Deng said. “There will be no revolt.”

“Ah,” Jian said. “I see. You would rather shed Chinese blood than hurt an American. How noble of you to care more for a barbarian than one of your own. I am proud to say that I do not share such a sentiment.”

“Sir,” said Police Minister Xiao. “My profilers believe we shall have increasingly bloody riots as the year progresses. If something isn’t done to alleviate the hunger, we shall have to institute massive suppression. The police battalions may need Army support.”

“What do you say, Deng?” the Chairman asked. “Shall we shed Chinese or American blood?”

Deng’s bad eye twitched, almost closing it. “I am against war, sir.”

“So we bleed our people?” the Chairman whispered.

“…no, sir,” Deng said.

“What then?” the Chairman whispered.

Jian leaned forward as he wet his lips. His armpits were soaked with sweat. He felt a trickle slide down his side.

“Perhaps a detailed war-study,” Deng said.

“I do not believe we have the time,” whispered the Chairman, “not if we hope to keep this preciously-given strategic surprise. This is a gift Fate has given us so China may forever secure her greatness.”

Every member present watched Deng Fong. He seemed to wilt under their combined stares. “Perhaps, sir, the polar raid to snatch the oil fields would prove enough of a lever.”

For a response, the Chairman’s chin sank onto his chest.

Jian was afraid the Chairman had fallen asleep. He had done so before, just as abruptly. Then Jian saw that the man’s eyes were open. For some reason, that frightened Jian. The old man was clearly thinking deeply.

Finally, the Chairman straightened his pain-racked body. “We will finalize the preparations for an Alaskan assault,” he said in a dry voice. “Admiral, you will continue preparations for a naval exercise, adding naval infantry brigades for a mass assault against metropolitan Anchorage.”

“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Qiang.

“You will also begin to implement your secret plan for crippling the American Navy,” the Chairman said. “In two weeks, no less than three, we must surprise the world with a bold snatching of Alaska.”

“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Qiang.

“Marshal, you shall finalize preparations for this cross-polar raid. Use the trains, use air transport, but get those specialist units ready for an immediate assault across the ice.”

“What if the Navy fails in its assigned tasks, sir?” asked the marshal. “It might leave my men open on the north slope of the Alaskan coast.”

“You will plan for Navy success,” the Chairman said, “not for failure. But if you feel that you cannot perform this task, tell me at once so I may find a general who can.”

“The Army will not fail you, sir,” the marshal said.

A grim smile stretched the Chairman’s face, showing the wrinkles there and the spottiness of his skin. He was diseased, but he seemed more invigorated than he had been for a long time.

A conqueror only truly loves conquering. Jian’s profilers had guessed right, and he was gaining a new lease on life. It was strange but heady to think he had brought about a war with America through his words. His words were a lever that were about to move the world. That was power, and it felt good, very good.

“Our Minister of Agriculture has seen farther than the rest of you,” the Chairman said. “We will not repeat the failure that faced Cheng Ho. This time, the Chinese will rise above every nation on Earth and stamp the world with its superior civilization. First, however, we must survive this new glacial period and gain for our people a secure food supply. Are there any here who disagree with our plan?”

Those last words were famous. According to legend they’d been spoken a week before the Siberian Invasion. Also, according to a much-whispered story, a minister had spoken up then, urging caution. As if delighted, the Chairman had thanked the minister for the courage to speak his mind. He had asked the minister to step outside with him so the man could tell him his worries in private. The two had left the room and they had left the other ministers and generals. Seconds later, a shot had rung out. The Chairman returned alone, with a smoking pistol in his hand.

Today, no one spoke up against the finalized plan, not even Deng.

“Then I declare the meeting over,” the Chairman said. “Everyone is dismissed. Ah, except for you, Jian Hong. I wish to speak with you alone. I would know more how you envision this battle to proceed.”

Jian’s heart beat faster. He had intrigued and plotted to survive Deng’s personal attack. Might he have stumbled onto the key to the highest position? Was the Chairman going to name him as his successor? Winning the war against America could possibly give him everything, while losing it—no, he mustn’t think about that. China would win. For his sake, it had to.