Invasion: Alaska

-6- Last Moves

“Get up,” the former master sergeant said, the man Murphy had hurled the shot glass at.

Paul Kavanagh removed the arm slung over his eyes. He lay on a couch in the base rec room, with two Blacksand guards in parkas staring at him from the foot of the couch. He’d heard them come in, but had ignored their presence. Each wore a fur-lined hood and ski mask. Paul could see their eyes and mouths, and that each slung a rifle over his left shoulder. They looked like Arctic bank robbers or kidnappers, making him feel even more like a prisoner.

“Did you hear me?” asked the master sergeant.

“Yeah,” Paul said, “I heard you.”

“Then get up! John Red Cloud wants to talk to you.”

Paul swung his legs off the couch, putting his feet on the carpeted floor. The otherwise empty room had a billiards table, some TVs with Xboxes attached and a ping-pong table. Outside, the wind blew against the lone window, a tiny, reinforced thing.

“If you want to stay working at the rig,” said the master sergeant, “you’d better hurry up.”

Paul Kavanagh wanted the job. He needed it and couldn’t afford to screw up yet another time. He’d talked with Cheri once since coming here, and she wasn’t doing as well with her hairstyling as she’d hoped. She and Mikey needed cash for rent. The car had taken more than she’d expected to fix, and he needed to send them money if he didn’t want his ex-wife and kid on the streets.

The problem was Paul had left the shed with Murphy in Dead Horse. John Red Cloud had wanted to leave both him and Murphy there, but he wanted trouble with the law even less.

Red Cloud was the boss of the Blacksand team at the Arctic oil rig and had been waiting at Dead Horse for their arrival. The entire situation had gotten even worse for Paul. Red Cloud wasn’t just any Indian, no, not a chance. It was Paul’s luck that Red Cloud was Algonquian. When he’d first heard that, Paul Kavanagh had known what it meant. Algonquian was a northern Indian tribe. It was also one of the two language groups spoken by northern Indians. The other language group was Athabaskan. The only Native American group north of the Algonquians was Inuit or Eskimo. Eskimo was an Algonquian word. It meant raw meat eater. The Algonquians had coined the name before the coming of the Europeans. It had been meant as an insult to the Inuit, as the Algonquians cooked their meat.

Paul had known all this because America had once lent Canada some Marine battalions. He’d fought separatist French-Canadians for the Canadian government. And just as they had done in the colonial days when many native people had fought with the French, many Quebec-based tribes had sided with the separatists. That had been particularly important in the Canadian Shield area where Paul had done the majority of his service. Red Cloud was Algonquian. He had fought for the French-Canadian separatists. Worse for Paul, Red Cloud had witnessed Marines shooting several of his fellow warriors in the woods. After the mini-Canadian civil war, Red Cloud had been driven out of Canada because of his war-record. The Canadian government had granted amnesty to the French-Canadian separatists, but not to the Algonquian warriors who had claimed tribal independence from all sides. Fleeing Canada, Red Cloud had found refuge with Blacksand. Given his northern upbringing and training, Red Cloud made an ideal mercenary for the Arctic oil rigs.

Paul had learned some of this from Red Cloud as the Blacksand boss had chewed them out in Dead Horse.

“He used to be in the Marines,” Murphy had said, using his thumb to point at Paul. Murphy’s voice had sounded funny because of the broken nose and the heavy bandages swathing it.

Red Cloud had nodded in a way that told Paul the Indian had already known that. The Algonquian warrior had gone on to inform them that a fine was coming out of their paychecks. Each of them would work at the rig long enough to pay for their plane tickets and the fine Red Cloud was adding for breach of contract.

“Why not just send us home, Chief?” Murphy had asked.

Those black eyes had locked onto Murphy, and slowly, Red Cloud had shaken his head. There was a hidden deadliness to the Algonquian. Paul could easily imagine Red Cloud torturing a bound man. The Indian wasn’t someone Paul would want to get angry, and yet he had already managed to do so.

The plane ride to Platform P-53 had proven uneventful, if long. Outside the plane had been ice—polar ice—thousands of bleak miles of it in grim darkness and in all directions. The sun wouldn’t shine in this part of the world for months.

From a distance, their destination had looked like Santa Claus’s kingdom. There had been lights, towers and ice. They’d landed on an ice runway and ridden a tracked snowcat to the sheds surrounding the rig. That was Platform P-53: sheds, three working derricks, gravel, huge storage tanks…and ice floating on the Arctic Ocean. The closest place of interest was the North Pole, while Siberia and Greenland were almost as near as Alaska and Canada.

If what Paul had done hadn’t already been enough, in the last few days, he had inadvertently broken three rules. He’d phoned his ex-wife in order to talk with Mikey. That had broken two rules at once. In the States, he’d signed a contract that said he’d leave all communication devices behind. By actually using the cell phone to speak with non oil-company entities, he’d broken the second rule. The third infraction had been a second fight with Murphy. Two days ago, the ex-Army Ranger had ambushed him in the rec room. Murphy had clipped the back of the head with a cue stick and almost finished the fight by ramming the end into his back. Instead, it had ended with Paul using the cue stick. He’d ripped it out of Murphy’s grasp and cracked him on the side of the head, causing the attacker to thump onto the rec room’s carpet. Since then, Paul had been quarantined in the room, while Murphy recovered in the infirmary.

“Last chance, Kavanagh,” the master sergeant in the rec room said.

If you lose this job now, you’re probably finished for good, Paul told himself. At least you have to try. With a sigh, he shoved himself to his feet. “Yeah, I’m coming. Let’s go talk with Red Cloud.”

Soon, the two guards and Paul crunched across the snow, a light layer of it over the ice. It didn’t snow here much. In fact, many parts of the Arctic received less precipitation than a hot desert.

The derricks pumped oil, the giant pistons moving up and down. There was a gas flame burning at the top of a pole, getting rid of excess waste fumes.

Paul shivered. The wind was cold against his face. He’d heard incredibly that there were colder places in Siberia, as the saltwater here helped keep the temperature higher than otherwise.

A different shed loomed near. There were twelve of varying sizes. The idea that terrorists could get up here to hurt the oil rig seemed more than ludicrous. Still, it was work, and work brought money, and that money Paul needed now more than ever.

“Go on,” said the master sergeant. “And make sure you stamp your feet on the mat. Red Cloud doesn’t like snow on his rug.”

“Take your boots off inside,” the other guard said.

“If he doesn’t know that,” the master sergeant said, “he’s an idiot.”

“We already know he’s an idiot,” the second guard said. “So what’s your point?”

Paul glanced angrily at the second guard.

“What did I tell you?” the second guard told the first. “This guy can’t hold his temper for nothing. Go on inside, loser. And good riddance to you, I say.”

Paul thought about that as he opened the door. Hot air blasted against his face, and it felt good. He shut the door behind him, stamped his feet on the mat and took off his boots. The carpeted area had couches, recliners and several paintings on the wall, store-bought pieces of woodlands. There was also a large-screen TV. Various doors led to different rooms. They were all closed. One door was open, and Paul spied a desk.

“In here, Marine.”

Paul recognized the odd accent. It wasn’t French-Canadian, but had a hint of it. It must be an Algonquian accent. Taking a deep breath, Paul headed for the open door, still not used to walking around in his stocking feet.

The small Algonquian sat behind a modest desk. Red Cloud had a computer screen and several wooden figurines: an elk, a grizzly and a wolverine. On the walls were more woodland paintings. A Remington shotgun stood in a corner, while an old Uzi machine gun hung on a wall. Red Cloud wore lumberjack-style clothes and a strange buckskin pendant on his throat. He studied Paul with those dark eyes of his before finally indicating that he sit down.

There were two chairs, both wooden. Paul sat in the nearest, leaning back so the dowels creaked.

“I’ve been reading your war record,” Red Cloud said, pointing at the computer screen. “You made several deep penetration raids.”

“There wasn’t much of a front in the woods of Quebec,” Paul said. “Everything was a deep raid, but you know that.”

Red Cloud nodded. “During the war, I killed five Marines, two with my bare hands. I caught them in their sleeping bags.”

Paul had told himself to remain calm and cool while in here, but he felt his face flush with heat. “Is that right? Well I found more of you snow-fleas sitting on the crapper than you could—” Paul snapped his mouth shut, struggling to remain quiet.

“You are a troubled man.”

Paul shrugged.

“Troubled men are a liability in a land like this.”

“Yeah?” Paul asked. “I could live off the land better than anyone here, including you, Cochise.”

“Boasts do not impress me.”

“I ain’t boasting,” Paul said, trying to control his slipping temper. “I’m stating a fact.”

Red Cloud touched the pedant on his throat. “You are a warrior. You are a man who likes to fight.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I didn’t start the fight in the bar?”

“I’ve read your record. You had several citations for courage and three chances for a Bronze Star. Yet you never received a medal. Why was that?”

“I’m not good at sucking up,” Paul muttered. “Cheri could tell you that.”

“Warriors are good in a war, but they are trouble during peace. If I were going to raid Greenland, I would choose you. But if we’re to keep men confined in close quarters here, you would be my second-to-last choice.”

“Is that right?”

“Murphy would be the first to go,” Red Cloud said. “He stinks of even more trouble than you do. My decision here has nothing to do with the fact that we were enemies once. You fought well in Quebec. But I will not keep a warrior like you in my combat team.” Red Cloud regarded him. “The mechanics are working on the plane’s engine, overhauling it. Once it is ready, I am sending you two back to Dead Horse.”

“What about my contract?” Paul asked. He felt numb, defeated once more.

“You broke your word. I can terminate your contract at anytime, and it is my will to do so now.”

Paul stared into those pitiless eyes. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to get up and do something. Cheri had sounded desperate over the phone. She and Mikey needed the money.

“Listen…” Paul said, searching for the right words. He’d never been good at this and he felt so numb, so defeated. He didn’t know how to kiss butt and he didn’t want to start with some French-Canadian Algonquian. He turned away from those knowing eyes. “Listen,” he said roughly. “I… ah, fought against you once, right.”

“I have said as much. You were a worthy foe.”

“Yeah, I’m glad to hear it.” Paul shook his head without looking at the Algonquian. This was so demeaning. “That isn’t what I wanted to say. I…I have a wife and kid back home.”

“The records say you are divorced,” Red Cloud told him, as he indicted the computer.

“Right, right, that’s right,” Paul said. “But I’m helping her make payments, make rent. My boy—”

“Mike Kavanagh,” Red Cloud said.

“I call him Mikey,” Paul said. “He needs… he needs—damnit! This is hard for me. I don’t know the right words. I’m too quick with my fists sometimes. My temper hasn’t been any good since Quebec. I don’t know how—” Paul’s lips firmed and he glared at Red Cloud. “I’m asking for another chance. I’m not asking because I deserve it. I probably don’t. I know I’m trouble, but let me work here until I can send them money. They really need it. I don’t care about myself, but, but… do you have any kids?”

“The Marines killed them during the war,” Red Cloud said.

Paul noted the hard eyes, the mask-like features. Red Cloud reminded him of the Wild West photographs of Geronimo and Sitting Bull.

“I’m sorry they died,” Paul said.

Red Cloud just stared at him.

“That’s it then, huh?”

“You will work until the plane is ready. You will check the outer perimeter ice or you will not eat.”

The anger left Paul. Had Marines really slain Red Cloud’s kids? War sucks. Sometimes life wasn’t that great either. He’d lost another job and he was stuck up here so he couldn’t even try to get another one, no matter how rotten it was. How was Cheri supposed to make rent? What would Mikey think about his dad now?

Paul stood up. “I get it, and I don’t blame you.”

“Go,” Red Cloud said. “Your presence wearies me, and I am already too tired.”

Paul realized he’d been screwed from the start. Stuck in the North Pole with a Marine-hating Algonquian for a boss—it couldn’t get any worse than that.

Anna Chen arrived in her West Wing cubicle exhausted. She’d been up until four in the morning, reading the latest CIA reports and comparing them with her own sources of information concerning the People’s Republic of China.

Something had caught her eye yesterday, making sleep nearly impossible as she kept churning over what it meant. It was a speech by the Agricultural Minister, Jian Hong. He had spoken in Tiananmen Square for the Tea Ceremony commemorating the dead lost during Taiwan’s reunification with the mainland. Two things intrigued her about the event. One, the ailing Chairman had appeared on stage with the Agricultural Minister. Anna had spent two hours examining every photo and recording she could showing the Chairman during the Tea Ceremony. He seldom appeared in public these days, and reports of his failing health were rampant. On stage, he’d sat very straight, as if it were difficult for him to do so. During Jian Hong’s speech, the Chairman had sat even straighter. The old man’s eyes had seemed to shine during one part of the speech especially. That was the second thing that had intrigued Anna: the Agricultural Minister’s commentary on Cheng Ho.

She was familiar with the Chinese eunuch. During the Ming Dynasty of Renaissance times, Cheng Ho had often been referred to as the Admiral of the Triple Treasure or the Three-Jewel Eunuch. He first set out on his voyages during the reign of Ming Emperor Yung Lo. The seven grand expeditions occurred from 1405 to 1422. During the same time, Prince Henry the Navigator of Portugal was sending his ships inching down the west coast of Africa in tiny caravels.

With his fleet, Cheng Ho sailed beyond the China Sea and around the Indian Ocean. He reached the east coast of Africa and voyaged as far as the tip of the Dark Continent. Unlike Prince Henry’s small flotillas with their leaky ships, Cheng Ho possessed monstrous vessels. The largest, the Treasure Ship, boasted nine masts and had been four hundred and forty-four feet long, with a beam of one hundred and eighty feet. It had airtight bulkheads to prevent leakage or fire from spreading, and a gigantic rudder.

The grandest expedition had employed thirty-seven thousand soldiers, scholars and sailors, and had been composed of three hundred and seventeen ships. It had also been uniquely Chinese in outlook. These expeditions hadn’t sailed in conquest, but in peace, displaying the splendor and power of the new Ming Dynasty. It had shown the greatness of the Middle Kingdom—China considered itself as the center of the world. Cheng Ho had also gathered curios for the emperor and his court and had given gifts of massive proportion to those he’d visited. His generosity had shown the greatness of China, and that it needed nothing from the outer reaches of the world. The most excellent of the curios taken back to Beijing had been a giraffe from Africa.

In Chinese belief of that time, when Heaven smiled on the Emperor because of his excellent rule, it radiated cosmic forces of good will. This surplus energy helped create creatures like dragons and k’i-lin. The k’i-lin, a type of Chinese unicorn, had the body of a deer and the tail of an ox. It only ate herbs and harmed no living creature. To the Chinese, the giraffe they discovered in the Bengal king’s zoo fit this description. Cheng Ho had soon learned that the giraffe was called a girin in its native country. To his ear and those around him that had sounded very much like k’i-lin, confirming his belief that Heaven smiled on China. When they brought the giraffe back to China, people were amazed, and they agreed that this was a sign of Heaven’s favor and showed the goodness of the Middle Kingdom.

These voyages were a marvel, and they’d shown that China had possessed superior technology as compared to Europe at the time. However, there had been political forces at work that had strangled the naval expeditions.

The two forces vying for power were the emperor’s eunuchs, or courtiers, and the mandarins, the bureaucrats that ran the country. The eunuchs, or castrati, had gained their power because of their nearness to the emperor. No one but eunuchs or the emperor and his sons were allowed in the palace among the emperor’s many wives and concubines. Therefore, the eunuchs not only intimately understood what interested the emperor, but they could whisper suggestions to him whenever they wanted. Over time, this had led to their political rise.

During the voyages, the eunuchs were in the assent. Gradually, however, the mandarins regained their customary control. In 1433, the emperor—under mandarin guidance—issued the first of many edicts that enforced the Grand Withdrawal.

Chinese reclusiveness was an old story. It stemmed from the belief that China was the Middle Kingdom and that it needed nothing from the outer barbaric world. The Great Wall of China was a symptom of this. So was the Great Withdrawal, as the edicts inflicted increasingly savage punishments on Chinese who ventured aboard. These edicts also imposed a marine withdrawal, and soon it was a crime to build a ship with more than one mast.

China lost its chance to discover Europe and stamp its civilization on the world. Instead, the grasping Europeans “discovered” China. That had partly happened because China had withdrawn from its own greatness. It had also happened because the Europeans had desired a thousand new things like pepper, silk and tea wherever they could get it. It had pulled the Europeans to all corners of the world.

Jian Hong had spoken about these things in Tiananmen Square. He’d bewailed the lost chance of bringing peace and civilization to a barbaric world during Cheng Ho’s time. He’d spoken about China’s present greatness and how she owed it to herself to make sure the Middle Kingdom didn’t abandon its own welfare because of the barbarism practiced elsewhere. China must spread its civilization everywhere in these dangerous nuclear times. Fortunately, China had the Chairman to guide them through the treacherous waters of this glacial era. If others would hoard food, China would have to take matters into their own hands. Cheng Ho had freely given to the world. Now it was the world’s turn to give to China. If they would not give, China would rouse itself to act. On this, everyone present must assure themselves that the Chairman would do what was needed.

There had been more of the same. At the end of the increasingly passionate speech, the Agricultural Minister had turned to the Chairman, kneeling before him and bowing like a eunuch of old.

The masses had erupted with wild clapping and cheering, while the Chinese national anthem blared over the loudspeakers.

As she sipped her morning tea, thinking about the speech, Anna sat up in sudden wonder. She turned on the computer and brought up the video of Tiananmen Square. Using zoom, she carefully scanned the people on stage with the Chairman and Jian Hong. After the third scan, Anna concluded that Deng Fong was nowhere to be found with them. Quickly, she brought up old Tea Ceremonies commemorating the dead of the Taiwan reunification. Each time, Deng Fong had delivered the speech. In some, the Chairman was present, but not in others.

“Something has happened,” Anna whispered to herself. What did she know about Jian Hong? He was ambitious and driven, a youth of fifty-six sitting on the Ruling Committee of the Politburo. He also ran the failed Agricultural Ministry.

In Sydney, Deng Fong had wished to trade oil for grain.

Anna studied old notes. Deng had handpicked Jian for the post. Then she recalled a counter CIA brief. It took her a full ten minutes to find it. This analyst believed that Deng wished to torpedo Jian by stationing him in a post that couldn’t succeed. With the new glaciation, how could any Chinese, no matter how gifted, hope to increase crop yields?

Was there a hidden power play in progress?

Thinking deeply, Anna took the elevator to the cafeteria and refilled her cup with herbal tea. When she returned to her cubicle, she read CIA and DIA reports concerning China’s latest military moves. Then she used a special program to search the Black Files the NSA sent to the President.

Anna’s pulse quickened as she read a paragraph concerning a regiment of T-66 multi-turreted tanks that had been driven onto special cargo ships. Those were Army tanks, not Chinese naval infantry vehicles. Why were the Army’s latest T-66s taking part in the naval exercise?

Anna’s palms felt moist. She turned off her computer and stared at the dead screen. She saw her reflection and shook her head. She didn’t want to do this, but Anna Chen found herself standing. Taking a deep breath, Anna headed for the bathroom. She needed to speak with Colin Green, the National Security Advisor. The usual way was to first speak with the Third Assistant and gain an appointment. Anna had the terrible feeling that it might already be too late.

Thinking that, she broke into a run, causing several people to look up and stare at her in surprise. It made her queasy, them looking at her, but she kept running until she hit the bathroom door and hurried inside.

Soon, Anna came out and made her way across the West Wing to the National Security Advisor’s office. She walked inside and cleared her throat.

The National Security Advisor’s secretary looked up. “Oh my,” the man said. “Anna Chen?” he asked.

Anna tried to smile, but failed. She felt uneasy and self-conscious. In the bathroom, she’d tightened her shapeless dress with a belt, cinching it around her waist. She’d undone the bun and brushed the hair to her shoulders, scrubbed off the makeup hiding her smooth skin and had even taken off the thick glasses.

“You’re beautiful,” the secretary said.

Anna wanted to groan. She hated those words, and it made her blurt, “I need to speak with Colin Green—please.”

The secretary kept staring at Anna.

“Is he here?” Anna asked.

“Pardon?”

“The National Security Advisor—”

The door opened as Colin Green stepped out. He’d served in the Air Force for the first twenty years after college. He was brisk, of middle height and the former Senator of California, his influence helping Clark carry the State in his first bid for the Presidency. Green grinned upon sight of Anna. He wore an Armani suit and had short cut, prematurely gray hair. He was known for his extravagant style.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Anna Chen would like a word with you, sir,” the secretary said.

“This young lady?” asked Green.

“She belongs on your staff, sir.”

“You do?” Green asked Anna.

She nodded, feeling more miserable than ever. She should never have let down her hair. Why did she think she’d needed to do this to see the National Security Advisor?

“She heads the China Desk to your Third Assistant,” the secretary said.

“Oh,” Green said, frowning, and looking at Anna anew. “Did you do something to your hair?” he asked.

“Sir,” Anna said, “I think you should see this.” She held a computer-scroll in her hand.

Green was shaking his head. “I’m late for a meeting, I’m afraid. The President—”

“I believe China is about to attack America,” Anna said.

“Eh?” asked Green, who had already taken two steps through the office. He stopped and stared at her, the grin no longer there.

“They’ve massed ice-mobile battalions in Eastern Siberia at the most northern edge,” Anna said. “It looks as if they mean to cross the polar ice and attack Canada or Alaska.”

“Why would they do that?” Green asked. His frown had deepened, putting lines on his aging face.

“I’m not sure,” Anna admitted.

“Oh,” Green said, and a building tension seemed to leave him. “Well, write a report and give it to the Third Assistant. I’ll read it later, if he believes it’s warranted.”

“Sir,” Anna said, as he began walking again. “The Chinese are putting T-66 multi-turreted tanks in special cargo vessels.”

Colin Green waved his hand in dismissal. “The Chinese are having their yearly naval exercise,” he said.

“I know that, sir,” Anna said, following him into the quick-exit hall for the underground garage. “But the T-66s tanks are special. They’re the latest in Chinese battlefield technology. There are only a few regiments of them, and now the most combat-ready regiment is being placed onto cargo vessels. The Chinese have never done that before.”

“I’m sure it’s all part of their naval exercise.”

“Sir,” Anna said, “what is the President afraid of?”

Colin Green whirled around. His famous intensity radiated from him. He was known for his outbursts and, during them, his foul language. “What are you talking about, young lady? What have you heard?”

“The Chinese attacked our oil well off of California,” Anna said. “They did it to sabotage the Secretary of State’s talks in Sydney.”

“Where did you hear that?” Green said, and his eyes flashed. He seemed ready to hit her.

It frightened Anna, but this was too important for her to back down now. She forced herself to say, “Deng Fong didn’t deliver the Tea Ceremony speech in Tiananmen Square a day ago. Jian Hong did, in the company of the Chairman.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Green asked.

“Yes,” Anna said. “It’s a powerful political indicator. You and I both know that Deng Fong wishes for peaceful relations with us. What does Jian Hong desire?”

“Attacking America is madness,” declared Green. He glanced around, and he seemed surprised to find himself in the hall. He scowled, and he shook his head, as if struggling to suppress his emotions. “The President has told me this many times over the last few days.” Green studied her, searching for something.

It compelled Anna to say, “I only want to do what’s best for America, sir.”

“Your idea of a Chinese attack on the Californian oil rig is ludicrous.”

“I know about the White Tiger Commando they found in the water, sir.”

His mouth dropped open, and he swore before saying, “I don’t know how you learned about that. You’re going to tell me how, but right now that doesn’t matter.” He swore again, shaking his head. “Listen to me. The Chinese assault on the oil rig is highly classified information.” He stopped speaking as his eyes roved up and down her body and lingered on her breasts.

It made Anna nauseous.

Green took several steps nearer. “Listen to me, Ms. Chen. It is very important you understand what I’m about to say. President Clark wants peace more than any man on the planet. Too often, nations have conflicted with each other for petty reasons. There were many in the Pentagon who wished to invade Mexico during their recent civil war. Wisely, President Clark kept us out of that.”

“I’m aware of that, sir. It was one of the reasons I voted for him.

Green didn’t seem to hear her as he kept talking. “China is a young country.”

“Excuse me, sir, but China is old beyond measure—the oldest culture on the planet.”

“Don’t interrupt me, Ms. Chen.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to do so. But you must understand—”

Green lurched close and grabbed one of her wrists. His grip was strong. “Don’t ever interrupt me when I’m talking. Do you understand?”

Anna nodded, suddenly afraid. She’d heard strange stories about Colin Green, but had never believed them. The things he’d allegedly done as Senator of California to several visiting actresses—no one could be elected and do such things.

Green wore musky cologne and he had gin on his breath. “I’m telling you that China is a young country, the new great power. There are military men in China who would like nothing better than war with the United States. President Clark isn’t going to give them the provocation their military desires. The Chairman has told the President more than once that he wishes for universal peace.”

Anna summoned her courage to ask, “Then why did the Chairman invade Siberia and Taiwan?”

The grip tightened around her wrist, grinding bones together.

“You listen to me, you little witch. I won’t have people on my staff beating the war drums against China when the President has already made his decision. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Anna whispered.

“You are to immediately go home and lock yourself in your house. Stay there until I send a security team to guard you. If you fail to do this, young lady, there will be serious consequences. Do I make myself clear?” He tightened his grip so Anna squirmed.

“You’re hurting me, sir.”

“Yes, because I don’t want you hurting the President’s policies. Now do as I’ve said, Ms. Chen. Go.” He shoved her.

Anna stumbled and might have fallen, but she steadied herself against the wall.

National Security Advisor Colin Green straightened his tie and let his gaze rove over her body one more time. Then he nodded and headed down the hall.

Stan Higgins was in the officers club of Fort Richardson, which was an Army base just north of Anchorage. He didn’t feel like going home today and arguing with his wife again. She didn’t want him posting bail for his dad. He’d tried to get a loan at the bank….

Stan scowled as he sat at a table sipping beer. He appreciated Pastor Bill’s advice and his friend’s insights. According to Bill, Sergeant Jackson had been in the process of giving him a break with his dad. Bill had pointed out that Stan had threatened or practically threatened a police officer. Cops usually went ballistic if you did that. Jackson had held his cool and had even been willing to give his dad another chance. Maybe the police officer felt bad for what he’d done to his dad in jail.

“I doubt it,” Stan muttered to himself, sipping his beer.

“Professor.”

Stan looked up to see Brigadier General Hector Ramos standing there. The slender officer nodded. He had a beer and glanced at a chair.

“Be my guest,” said Stan.

Ramos sat down. He was the Brigadier General of the 1st Stryker Brigade, the “Arctic Wolves.” The Army and National Guard officers meet more often these days. With the Army’s shrinkage and the National Guard gaining tanks—Bradleys and other fighting vehicles—they needed to coordinate more.

Of Mexican descent and with a dark mustache, Hector Ramos was considered a controversial officer. Some of the higher brass in the Pentagon thought of him as a hotshot and a maverick. Others like Stan appreciated the general’s candor and quick intelligence.

“You looked troubled,” Ramos said.

“It shows, huh?”

Ramos shrugged and then suggested, “Let’s play a game of darts.”

A crooked grin crossed Stan’s face. The other officers knew of his love of games, and Ramos was just as fierce a competitor as Bill. Stan had thought before the two should meet, and he’d tried to get the general to come to church with him. Ramos had always declined, saying his interests were more scientific.

They took their beers and went into the other room. For the next fifteen minutes, they tossed darts at the round board. Stan had natural ability, and despite his preoccupation with his dad, he played well. The brigadier general had intense focus, and his muscles seemed perfectly wired to his brain. Hector Ramos won.

“Again?” the officer asked.

Stan shrugged.

Hector rubbed his chin. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Would your father like to come to the officers’ barbecue next week?”

Stan looked alarmed. “What have you heard?”

“Ah. So it is your father.”

Stan features fell.

Frowning, Ramos said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried. You just didn’t seem yourself and I was wondering….”

“You haven’t heard anything then?” Stan asked.

“No.”

“Then why did you just ask me that?”

“I had a premonition.”

Stan shook his head. Hector Ramos often amazed him. The man was uncanny. He wondered if General Lee of the Confederacy had been like that. Now there had been a tactical genius of the battlefield. The Army had made a mistake posting Ramos up here in Alaska. The only real potential war was on the Rio Grande, where they could use a man like Hector Ramos if things ever got hot.

They played another game of darts and each had another beer. Stan found himself telling Ramos about his dad and the incident with Sergeant Jackson.

“A war veteran like your father shouldn’t be in jail,” Ramos said as they sat down. “He needs professional help.”

“Tell me about it,” said Stan. “I’ve tried to post bail…but you know how tight money is these days.”

“They say the Depression is over, but no one told our economy that.”

“Exactly,” said Stan.

Ramos cocked his head. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and extracted two hundred dollar bills. “I would like to donate to your father’s bail.”

Stan blinked at the money. He swallowed, touched by the officer’s generosity. “No. I couldn’t—”

Ramos placed the two bills on the table. “Take them. If you don’t get enough for bail, use this for your lawyer.”

“General—”

Hector Ramos stood up. There was something dark in his eyes. “I remember my father….” He looked away, shook his head and turned back to Stan. Whatever had been in his eyes was hooded now. “Take the money, Professor. It’s the least I can do for our best tank commander.”

“Sir—”

“No one receives proper wages these days. Tell me later what happened.”

“No,” said Stan. “This is too much.”

“Isn’t that always the case, Captain? A good day to you.” Then Brigadier General Hector Ramos strode away, leaving Stan staring at the two hundred dollar bills lying on the table beside the darts.