Invasion: Alaska

-4- Placement

The small plane shuddered as metal groaned. All around Paul Kavanagh, men swore and gripped their armrests tightly. Outside, the wind howled like a legion of arctic demons. Each change in pitch sent the plane lurching in a different direction. There were eight new Blacksand employees in the plane’s passenger seats.

From the rearmost one, Paul stared out of a tiny window. It was dark outside except for the particles of white that beat against the glass. He couldn’t see the stars. He couldn’t see the ground. He couldn’t see crap and that was starting to make him hate this place. It was ten times worse here than northern Quebec. The Canadian Shield had been a rocky wasteland of snow, pines and the most ancient stones in the world. There had never been storms like this during his combat against the French-Canadian separatists.

According to what the Blacksand rep had told the eight of them before boarding in Anchorage, the plane was likely north of the tree line by now. Beyond the tree line was the tundra, a land of ice, snow and blizzards worse than any Saharan sandstorm.

Another gust howled around their puny craft. The plane lurched upward as metal groaned. It felt as if a giant twisted the fuselage, trying to pry it apart and spill them like ants onto the snow below. Just how far below the snow actually was, Paul had no idea, and that also troubled him.

A speaker crackled into life several feet away, and the pilot spoke. At least, Paul figured it was the pilot. The man was hidden behind a curtain up front, a curtain that swayed far too much. Paul heard garbled words from the speaker. He had no idea what the pilot was trying to tell them, and there was no way he was going to unbuckle to crawl closer to find out, either, so he was glad when the speaker quit broadcasting its gibberish.

A new wind shoved them sideways and the plane seemed to skip like a stone flung across a pond. Paul might have heard a moan. It was hard to hear anything but the roaring engines and wind. Then the man across the aisle was bent over, his forehead shoved against the back of the seat before him. The man spewed onto his black combat boots. The grim odor caused Paul’s own stomach to lurch.

As the man wiped his lips, he glanced over. Paul remembered that his name was Murphy. The man was squat, with dark, curly hair and the whitest face Paul had ever seen. There were beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. Murphy was an ex-Army Ranger and had bragged earlier about his sniper skills. He’d said something about hoping to bag seals. He said the Eskimos used to do it with harpoons. According to Murphy, now the Inuit used rifles to take headshots. They had to make sure they killed the seal with a single shot. The marine mammals slept by their air holes, and if you only wounded the beast, it slid into the hole and out of sight.

Paul wondered how many seals lived near the oil rig where they were headed. Were they like sea lions in Monterey, California, the kind that never stopped barking? He remembered his honeymoon in Monterey and eating out at night on the Old Fisherman’s Wharf. Cheri had commented several times on the barking sea lions.

The treacherous wind shifted yet again, shoving the plane down. Paul’s gut lurched as they dropped into a freefell. For a sickening instant, he couldn’t hear the engines. Is this what it felt like to space-walk, to float in zero gravity? Then the engines roared once more. It was a tortured sound, but welcome nonetheless. The plane quit falling, and it pitched forward, buffeted one way and then another.

In the plane’s flickering cabin light, Paul saw moisture in Murphy’s eyes.

“We’ll make it!” Paul shouted into Murphy’s ear. You could hardly call it an aisle between them. It had been hard for both of them squeezing into their seats. Paul could barely hear his own words and wondered if Murphy had heard him. He clapped Murphy on the shoulder, squeezing, trying to impart hope into the man. Paul felt iron-hard muscles. He wondered why Murphy had left the Army Rangers. Was he another hard case? Were they all losers in this plane, each in his separate way?

Shaking his head, Paul vowed that this time he was going to win. This time he’d keep his job. He’d excel and send Mikey—and Cheri—the money they needed.

The speaker crackled into life again, and the pilot spoke more of his gibberish. Paul would have liked to know what the man was saying.

Instead of unbuckling to find out, though, Paul hunched his head and watched the white particles appear out of the darkness and beat against the window. For all he could see, this might as well have been some alien planet. He hoped the pilot had radar and could talk to someone to guide them to a safe landing.

Two-and-a-quarter hours later, the plane skidded across a runway in Dead Horse. The place was the last inhabited spot before the vast ocean of ice. Most of Dead Horse had been constructed out of prefabricated buildings, an island of light in the Arctic darkness. It was the nearest “town” to Prudhoe Bay.

Several years ago, the Prudhoe Bay oilfields had been given a new lease on life. The science of extracting oil had continued to advance. New, deeper oilfields had been discovered here, dwarfing the existing fields and expanding Alaska’s importance. Combined with the recently built derricks in ANWR, this northern slope region had become one of the most concentrated oil-producing sites in the world.

The plane finally came to a stop and two snowmobiles raced to them. Soon, a hatch opened and the men scaled down the ladder to the snow. The storm had passed, although snow continued to fall. In the swirling flakes, there was shouting and pointing. Then two heavily-bundled men guided the spent Blacksand personnel to a nearby shed.

Paul was the last to get indoors. His cheeks and nose were cold. When the door slammed shut, he pulled off his gloves and wiped ice from his eyebrows.

Two heaters glowed beside snowmobiles and snow-blowing equipment. Folding chairs had been set up, with narrow pallets and sleeping bags beside them. Some of the new Blacksand personnel slumped like dead men on the sleeping bags.

Paul and several others moved to one of the heaters. A folding table had been set up with candy bars and hot chocolate.

The door opened, letting snow blow inside. A short man stepped in, shutting the door, and unwound a scarf from his face. He had leathery features, wore a woolen hat, and looked like an Indian—an unsmiling warrior with the darkest eyes Paul had ever seen. He told them his name was John Red Cloud.

“You men will sleep here,” Red Cloud said. He had an odd accent that Paul couldn’t place. He guessed the Indian to be another Blacksand agent.

Red Cloud pulled back the edge of his parka sleeve and glanced at a watch. “You’re leaving in five hours. Walk around in here if you feel like stretching, eat some bars, play cards, or sleep. I suggest you sleep.”

“How about some whiskey?” Murphy asked.

Paul thought he saw a speck of barf still around Murphy’s lips.

Red Cloud solemnly shook his head. “No alcohol.”

“Where’s the nearest bar?” Murphy asked.

Red Cloud frowned. He looked like a tough man, someone you wouldn’t want to make angry. “The ride out to the rig will be rough enough without drunks puking on the plane. You walk around in here, eat some candy, or sleep. You look like you need to sleep.”

Murphy was pale and his hands still shook as if from withdrawal. He glanced at the candy and snatched a chocolate bar, grumbling to himself as he tore it open.

“Stay put,” Red Cloud said.

“Where are you going?” Murphy asked.

“You’re in Blacksand now,” Red Cloud said, beginning to sound annoyed. “That means you obey orders. If you can’t do that, we’ll fine you and make you pay the bill for your plane ride out of here. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Murphy muttered, taking another bite of his bar.

Red Cloud studied them coolly, and then he shook his head. He wound the scarf back around his face. He hurried out, slamming the door behind him.

“Little bastard,” Murphy muttered. “All I need is a couple of shots of whiskey and I’d feel fine.”

Paul grabbed a packet of chocolate-covered peanuts. He popped them into his mouth, one at a time. After he was finished, he was thirsty for something other than melted snow.

“I need several shots,” Murphy declared.

Two men sat by a different heater, playing blackjack. The others lay on the sleeping bags, one of them already snoring.

“You feel like a shot?” Murphy asked Paul.

“I could use a beer,” Paul admitted.

“Let’s go find a bar,” Murphy said.

“Didn’t you hear the man?” asked one of the card-players.

“What?” Murphy asked. “You miss your grandma already?”

“Sure,” the card-player said. “You want to dig your own grave, there’s a bar about four hundred yards to the north.” He glanced at his companion and shook his head.

“You coming?” Murphy asked Paul.

Paul hesitated. Murphy was obviously a troublemaker, but Paul needed a beer. Did they have beer out at the oil rig? It would be a shame if they didn’t, especially if he gave up this last chance to have one here.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Paul said.

“You’re smart guys,” the card-player said. He’d just won the round and was re-shuffling the cards. He was a big man with a crewcut and had the feel of a master sergeant.

Murphy scowled, and it looked like he wanted to start something. Paul recalled when they’d first been in the airport at Anchorage. Murphy had beeped every time through security. It turned out he had a metal plate in his head. He had been somewhere bad once and had been captured by Arabs. They’d held him for almost a year, abusing him in a cave. Maybe that’s why he was crazy.

Paul slapped Murphy on the arm and pointed at the door as he headed toward it. He began buttoning his coat.

When Paul opened the door, Murphy swore behind him. It was cold and snow fell out of the darkness. Paul saw lights to the north. Four hundred yards wasn’t that far. He’d drink his beer and hurry back. How much trouble could that cause?

After crunching over snow, they entered the Klondike’s Rush. It was warm inside, with stools along a cedar bar with a zinc top, a mirror in back, and rows of the familiar bottles.

“Home,” Murphy said. He lurched onto a stool and pulled off his gloves. “Give me a whiskey!” he shouted. “And be ready to give me another.”

Paul sat on a stool and glanced around. Except for the bartender, there were only three other people: a woman and two men. The woman had seen better years and she wore a deer-hunting hat. She also wore garish lipstick and purple eye shadow. One of the men with her had a beard and a scar running into his left eye. His narrow-faced friend had a blue parka with denim jeans.

“Who are you?” the bearded man asked.

Murphy grabbed the shot glass as the bartender, an older man, quit pouring. The ex-Army Ranger tossed it down as he swiveled around.

“We’re Blacksand,” Murphy said, with an edge to his voice. “You got a problem with that?”

The woman hunched her head as she turned toward the bearded man. He shrugged and went back to talking to her.

“Didn’t think so,” Murphy said, swiveling back to the bar. “Another,” he said. “I told you to pour me two.”

The bartender looked like he wanted to say something, but a glance into Murphy’s eyes changed the old man’s mind. “Yes, sir,” the bartender said.

Murphy gave an ugly laugh, and he shot Paul a look. “Train them fast is what I say. Let them know right away who is boss. Then they know better than to give you crap.”

The bearded man at the table glanced up, seemed to measure Murphy with his eyes and decided he didn’t want anything to do with him. The man turned his chair so the back was aimed at the bar.

“Whiskey,” Murphy said, slapping his hand on the counter.

Paul sipped his beer, watching Murphy. The beer tasted good. After that plane ride, he needed this. He was beginning to think, however, that he should stay far away from Murphy.

The door to the bar opened and in walked the big master sergeant from the shed, the card-player with the crewcut. He had his partner with him. “Party’s over,” he said. “Red Cloud wants you two back. Told us to come fetch you.”

Murphy tossed down another shot before swiveling around. “You go run to Red Cloud and tattle on us?”

Paul took a swig of beer before standing and putting a ten on the bar. “Let’s go,” he told Murphy. It had been mistake coming, Paul could see that now.

Murphy blinked at him in surprise. “You chicken?” he asked. “The bristle-top make you scared?”

A flash of heat went through Paul. He’d never liked bullies or bigmouths. His dislike of such people had led to more than a few fistfights in high school, which had led to continuation school and finally, a few nights in jail. The last time, a judge had suggested the Marines. Paul had taken the bait. No one fought fair in jail anyway, and he’d gotten tired of fighting four or five against one. He now picked up his beer and took a last swig.

“I took you for a fighter,” Murphy was saying.

Paul shrugged. He’d had enough of the ex-Army Ranger. He began buttoning his coat.

“You too, tough guy,” the master sergeant told Murphy.

Murphy gave him the bird before turning back to the bar and grabbing a fistful of peanuts. “Whiskey!” he shouted.

The bartender was at his spot at the far end of the bar. Maybe there was something about the master sergeant that kept the bartender where he was.

“I said WHISKEY!” Murphy shouted.

The master sergeant grumbled, nodded at his partner and purposely strode for Murphy. “You’re coming with us even if we have to haul you in.”

Murphy surprised everyone. The ex-Army Ranger slid off the stool and hurled his shot glass all in one motion. It was a perfect throw, catching the master sergeant between the eyes. It dropped him as his head jerked back. The master sergeant collapsed like a hunk of jelly. His partner stopped, staring at his friend. Murphy kept moving. There was a crazy look in his eyes, and he kicked the partner’s left kneecap. The man’s leg buckled under him. The partner fell as he clutched his knee, and his groans were animal-like. Murphy was still moving. The ex-Ranger was like greased death. He produced a switchblade, clicking out the metal. Kneeling by the master sergeant, Murphy grabbed him by the throat of his coat.

“I’m going to leave you a scar, tough guy.”

Before the ex-Ranger could cut the master sergeant, Paul grabbed Murphy’s wrist. He’d crossed the distance between them, recognizing a killer. You didn’t talk a killer out of hurting others when his blood was hot. Murphy looked up. The ex-Ranger had craziness in his eyes, so Paul hit him in the face. Blood spurted from the nose and Murphy’s head snapped back. Paul twisted the wrist as he slapped the back of Murphy’s hand. The switchblade clattered onto the wooden floor.

“You’re gonna die, beer-boy,” Murphy muttered.

Paul hit him a second time, harder than before. It hurt his knuckles—it gashed them—and it smeared his fingers with the Ranger’s blood. That stunned Murphy long enough for Paul to haul back and hit him with a haymaker. Murphy thumped onto the floor, the back of his head knocking against wood. He was unconscious, and blood poured from his nose.

“Call Blacksand,” Paul told the bartender. The old man kept blinking at him. “Did you hear me?”

The bartender reached for the phone.

Rubbing his sore fingers, Paul sat on a stool, picking up his beer. He looked at the three men on the floor. The partner was weeping now, clutching his leg, as if it would run away if he let go.

With a tired sigh, Paul sipped his beer, deciding he might as well finish it. This was looking to be a long night, or day. He still didn’t know what time it was.

In the darkness of the Arctic Circle, a Leopard Z-6 Hovertank slid across the tundra. Several kilometers away, the lights of Ambarchik glittered like a prized jewel. It was a lonely outpost, one of the most godforsaken towns in the world. It was at the northern edge of the Eurasian continent, nestled against the frozen East Siberian Sea. As an arctic tern flies, the Siberian side of the Bering Strait was twelve hundred kilometers away. The Russian city of Murmansk, which was near Finland, lay three thousand six hundred kilometers to the west. Three kilometers from Ambarchik was Ambarchik Base, the third largest Chinese military facility in East Siberia.

The hovertank’s main weapon was a high-velocity 76mm cannon firing rocket-assisted shells. The cannon was self-loading, while the hovertank’s crew of three drove the vehicle, manned the cannon, and commanded. A 12.7mm machine gun in the commander’s copula provided anti-infantry support. The armor was a lightweight sandwich of ceramic/ultraluminum, with an explosive skin that helped retard shape-charged rounds. A bubble of bullet-resistant plastic over the commander’s hatch gave him some small-arms protection whenever he rode “heads-up.” It also kept the hovertank’s heat from dissipating into the arctic night. Power came from a diesel Qang 2000 with a turbo supercharger for cold-weather starts.

The Americans had nothing like the Leopard Z-6. It moved swiftly onto the pack ice, showing its greatest asset: speed.

Several kilometers later, as it traveled north and farther onto the ice, the hovertank slowed and then stopped, rocking slightly as it maintained its position on a cushion of air. Slowly, the military vehicle sank as its armored skirt shuddered, touching down when its hidden but powerful fans stopped.

Moments passed until a side-hatch opened. A heavily-bundled and short General Shin Nung squeezed through. In his awkward snow boots, he used the ladder, climbing down to the ice. He wore a fur-lined hood like a Yakut native, the Siberian cousin to the Alaskan Eskimos. The general was fifty-nine years old and a hero of the Siberian War. His armored thrust had captured Yakutsk and effectively ended the conflict.

General Nung was the commander of the coming cross-polar attack. His face tingled in the cold. He had blunt features and an aggressive stare. In his youth, he had studied six long years at the Russian Military Academy in Moscow. It had been a lonely existence, and too many of the high command in China still thought of him as half-Russian. What made it worse was that he continually achieved success through his adherence to headlong attack as the Russians taught. He had many enemies in high command, but the Chairman backed him. That was all the influence he needed.

General Nung surveyed the polar landscape, the seemingly featureless pack ice that spanned the ocean all the way to Alaska.

Another man now squeezed through the hovertank’s hatch. He, too, wore arctic clothing and a hood, but was taller and much older than General Nung. He was Marshal Kao, and he was the Army Minister of the Ruling Committee, only recently arrived from Beijing. He had told Nung he was here to speak personally with the commanding general so he could give an eyewitness report to the Chairman on the taskforce’s readiness.

The hovertank’s arc lights provided the only illumination here, as clouds hid the moon and stars.

Old Marshal Kao shivered.

That brought a contemptuous smile to General Nung’s lips. The arrogant mandarin needed to feel the cold he was sending them into. If he didn’t like the temperature, the old man should have covered his sculptured features. Nung turned away, no longer wanting to see the weakness there. Despite the marshal’s age, Kao had aesthetic features like some over-bred palace prince. Everyone knew he used botox injections to erase the lines in his face. Worse, he was known for his artistic leanings. Nung had seen some of Kao’s paintings before. He’d walked in the marshal’s house along with others. The disgusting memory still soiled him. He’d wanted to rip the paintings off the walls, open his fly and piss all over them in front of the others. Imagine, a military man dabbling with paints, with a little brush as he stroked here and touched there. It had been revolting.

How can I reason with a painting marshal? It’s impossible. Yet, for the sake of my men, I must try.

Nung breathed through his nose, feeling the cold tingle. He loved the challenge of this attack. If only these delicate types would let a military genius like him do what needed doing, he’d win Alaska for them. Boldness. Courage. Vigor. That is what won wars. That’s what had led him to capturing Yakutsk with a handful of tanks. At least the Chairman understood. Nung knew that he was uniquely qualified for the present task. He was the right man in the right place at the right time to achieve glory…for China as well as for himself.

“It’s freezing,” said Kao.

With his back to the Army Minister, Nung sneered.

You should have stayed in Beijing with your paints. Don’t come out here in the cold if you don’t want to do a soldier’s job.

“I have waited until now to inform you of another facet to your assault,” Kao said. “It is the reason I agreed to this trip onto the ice.”

General Nung turned around, facing the taller man and the hovertank.

“The Chairman fears some of the men may lose heart as they cross thousands of kilometers of ice to Alaska,” Kao said.

“My men?” asked Nung, sounding genuinely surprised. He’d been training them for months in Arctic warfare.

Marshal Kao affected a one-sided smile. It was said he practiced his mannerisms before a mirror several hours a day.

“During the assault you cannot be everywhere at once, General. Besides, the Chairman doesn’t want you shooting personnel when you’ll possibly need everyone in the taskforce to complete your mission.”

Nung bristled at the insult. He knew the painter considered himself more cultured—and therefore more Chinese and superior to him. Didn’t the old man realize that they were out on the pack ice? The tankers in the hover were some of his most loyal men. The desire to break this mandarin with his bare hands…Nung could see himself chopping a hole in the ice and sliding the marshal’s corpse into the freezing waters. He’d heard that’s what a Russian noble had once done to Rasputin, a strange political creature in the czar’s household during World War One. After putting Kao into Arctic storage, he would concoct a story how the minister had strolled over treacherous ice. That would shock those in high command.

“Commissar Ping with ten operatives from East Lightning will join your taskforce,” Kao said.

“What?” Nung whispered. His fantasies dissolved as anger took over.

“The Chairman believes that morale is all important in war. The soldier whose heart remains strongest will always be the victor.”

“Does the Chairman doubt my heart?” asked Nung.

The older man stared at him, as if he had not heard the question.

“What is the meaning of sending Ping and his killers with me?” Nung asked.

“The Police Minister suggested the move and the Chairman agreed.”

Blood rushed to Nung’s face. He swayed, and he flexed his gloved fingers. “Why taint an Army mission with policemen?”

“Yes, it seems unnatural. It almost seems…Russian,” Kao said. “Ah, you maintain your silence. How Chinese of you, General.”

Nung’s head swayed as if slapped. How dare this old goat say such a thing to him—to him, a hero of the Siberian War. He had been the only commanding officer to receive an Order of Mao Medallion.

“Who ended the war in Siberia?” Nung asked thickly.

“Ah, yes,” said Kao. “Your famous armor thrust to Yakutsk. Surely, you must understand that the war was winding down. You used your men to earn fame, gunning down several of your own soldiers. You hounded them in order to reach Yakutsk before Bingwen’s column.”

“Your brother-in-law Bingwen’s column,” Nung said.

“Bingwen’s near-relation to me makes no difference to the facts,” said Kao.

Nung had fought against the Army clique his entire life. He had climbed the rungs of rank despite their attempts to torpedo him. Finding it hard to control his temper, Nung asked, “Do you know why I’m commanding this mission?”

“It is obvious that you do not,” Kao said. “I know you believe yourself to be the Chairman’s pet, but I helped put you in the most miserable post I could find. Here. Who would know that the Chairman would decide on such a risky endeavor as this suicidal cross-polar—” Kao quit talking as he blinked in surprise, maybe at the boldness of his words.

“Please,” Nung said. “Tell me more. Your comments on the Chairman’s abilities tickle my ears.”

Marshal Kao straightened as he peered down at the shorter Nung. “You have your orders.”

“Yes. I’ve studied the Army plan,” Nung said. “I detected your hand everywhere. You are methodical and detailed, having us move carefully from phase to phase as we leapfrog our way to Alaska.”

“The cross-polar thrust is a matter of logistics. The pack ice and remoteness of the starting bases makes it a nightmare. It also means you lack needed numbers. But we will air-ferry you more troops and bring others from Navy submarines to reinforce you as you attack.”

“I have studied the Army plan and I find it overly cautious,” Nung said.

“Your praise makes me blush.”

General Nung looked away. Ice, darkness and cold—the marshal would have them spend weeks out on the ice. The plan as it stood was hopeless. He knew that the others couldn’t understand his brilliance. They equated manners and education with brains, and Nung lacked their polished ways. Yet he had outshone every other general in the Siberian War. Yes, he had shot slackers. He’d even gunned down a colonel. Afterward, his men had jumped whenever he gave an order. He had the iron for hard decisions just as the great Chairman Mao had possessed. He had the will and the confidence to keep going where other men halted in confusion or fright.

Nung sighed. Without facing the prim old man, he said, “Your schemes appear beautiful in the conference chamber. But they fail to take into account the fighting soldier and his lust and joy of battle.”

“I am not a butcher. That is true.”

Nung faced the Army Minister. “Did you read my proposal?”

“Yes. It was full of grammatical errors.”

“My proposal was based on a similar historical situation. A dictator named Saddam Hussein once attempted to snatch oil-rich regions.”

“I had no idea you read history.”

“Military history,” Nung said. “After Saddam’s draining war with Iran, he wished to renege on his massive debts to Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Saddam invaded Kuwait and its oilfields. He used far too many soldiers for the attack and he failed to march far enough. He should have taken an elite force and kept going into northeastern Saudi Arabia. If he’d done so, he would have captured the majority of the Arab world’s oil wells. He could have threatened to blow up everything, and the world would have faced a massive oil crisis. That threat would have paralyzed America and kept them from building up a large Coalition force in Saudi Arabia. Instead, Saddam only went partway, grabbing Kuwait but leaving the Saudi oilfields intact. His timidity ended up losing him everything.”

Marshal Kao eyed him, and there was a look of surprise on the old man’s face. Kao pursed his lips. “Yes. I see your point.”

“Then you understand?”

“Understand what?” Kao asked.

They can see the past if someone points it out to them, but they can never see the application now. Why am I so farsighted and why are others so blind?

“I brought you out here on the pack ice and in the hovertank for a reason,” Nung said.

“I accepted the demonstration for a reason,” Kao said. “So we could speak without worrying about eavesdroppers or listening devices. Now tell me your point. I’m cold beyond belief and want to get to my plane so I can return to Beijing.”

“The Army plan is too complicated,” Nung said. “You have endless phases with engineer-built airstrips, thousand-mile-long ice-roads and hastily-constructed bases in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. Your suggested air-traffic will alert the Americans long before we reach the northern slope of Alaska. The enemy has recon satellites—”

“Forgive me for interrupting your dissertation,” Kao said. “But the Air Force has agreed to destroy the enemy reconnaissance satellites.”

Nung struggled to control his temper. “Such elaborate phases or steps will alert the Americans. They will airlift reinforcements to the oilfields before our planned approach reaches U.S. soil.”

“It is why you will need the build-up of supplies, planes, soldiers and snowtanks,” Kao said.

“No, no,” Nung insisted. “The plan’s very deliberateness will bring about what you most fear. We will end up fighting a war of attrition, with our main rallying points on the exposed ice. A single nuclear missile could open the ice under our feet and lose us everything.”

“Our laser-armed jets will protect you from nuclear missiles. Even now, they are being winterized so they can operate in Arctic conditions.”

“Can they protect us from a remote-guided submersible carefully maneuvered underneath us, igniting a mushroom cloud?” asked Nung.

In shock, Kao stared at Nung.

“I see you haven’t considered that,” Nung said. “It may not even take such a submersible. The laser-armed jets you’re speaking about are larger than our heavy cargo planes. It would take very special ice-runways to accommodate them for long. The planes are suitable for the continental defense of China, but I doubt their coverage in the polar Arctic.”

“There are means for thickening ice to support heavy aircraft,” Kao said.

“And the enemy submersible?” asked Nung.

“If the Americans use tactical nuclear weapons,” Kao said, “they will face heavy retaliation. They know that our strategic ballistic missile and laser defense is far superior to theirs. I do not fear their tactical nuclear weapons. What I fear is your brashness, General. If it were up to me, I would replace you. I fear that you will attempt another of your cavalry raids. The Americans are not Siberians.”

Nung seethed inside. The others called him a peasant because he didn’t paint and lacked their connections. Instead, he used his head, but they couldn’t hear him because he wasn’t a mandarin like them. He was sick of anyone telling him that Siberians weren’t Americans. They did it in an attempt to belittle his stunning armor thrust to Yakutsk.

“Men are men,” Nung said.

“Ah, that is so brilliant and so insightful. Please, repeat it so I can memorize the saying and tell it to the Chairman. I’m sure he will appreciate your aphorism.”

“Sir, this attack calls for an all-out race to the northern slope. A small force of hovertanks moving boldly and quickly can accomplish what many brigades of slower formations will never achieve. Let me grab the oilfields and mine them with explosives. I will give you victory in less than a week.”

Kao shook his head. “Hovertanks are fragile instruments. They are useless in high Arctic winds and they cannot operate on rugged ground or on slopes. What if the wind howls for a week, grounding your hovertanks? You’d run out of supplies, or we would have to airdrop you more. That would certainly alert the Americans.”

“War is a risk,” Nung said. “The bold win by accepting the risks.”

“The wise win through strategy. As the great Sun Tzu says: He wins his battles by making no mistakes.”

“I can quote the ancient sage, too,” Nung said. “Appear at points which the enemy must hasten to defend, march swiftly to places where you are not expected.”

“You misapply the great Sun Tzu because your judgment is tainted by your Russian education. You do not understand the Chinese way to victory. Perhaps as debilitating, you lack judgment on these matters because of your victorious thrust against demoralized and under-armed Siberians. We will use overwhelming force on the Americans.”

“Yes,” Nung said, “if they wait for each of your phases to end before the next begins.”

“General Nung, it is true that sometimes a brash plan works, but that is more a matter of luck than true military calculation. Crossing thousands of kilometers of pack ice calls for planning and logistics more than it does for wild cavalry charges. You are a fighter. I will grant you that. What works for a two-hundred kilometer thrust, however, will most certainly fail for a two-thousand kilometer attack. Therefore, to keep your Russian tendencies in check, Commissar Ping and ten East Lightning operatives will join your command team. Ping will have veto power on all your military decisions.”

“That is outrageous.”

“If you refuse such a situation,” said Kao, “resign your commission.”

“No.”

“Then you will follow the Army plan. Combined arms will give you victory, and however distasteful it is to me, you will once again become a battlefield hero. Still, you will always know that I gave you this victory and that your way would have spelled disaster.”

General Nung looked away. A slow methodical advance across the ice—it was wrong. He knew how to win. This Commissar Ping…he’d have to find a way around the policeman. It would be dangerous—

“It’s time to leave,” said Kao.

“Yes,” Nung said. He would think this through later. He would not let these over-cultured mandarins thwart him or thwart China. The time would come when he would crush them as a moth in his fist. Despite every handicap, he would find a way to win this war with élan.

“Let us return to base,” Nung said. “There is much that still needs doing.”

Kao scrutinized him before nodding and heading for the ladder.