Invasion: Alaska

-7- Beginnings

First Rank Lu Po of the White Tiger Commandos doubted he would survive the attack against the two American carriers. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to survive. And if that meant jeopardizing the mission…Lu shrugged his thick shoulders. In that case, the High Commander of the White Tigers should have picked someone else. Well, it actually meant that Lu should have wrestled with less vigor. He’d known even during the matches that he should have faked an injury. The trouble was he couldn’t do that. No one had ever beaten him wrestling and he hadn’t been about to let anyone do it then, either. Besides, if he’d lost, the commander and others would have been suspicious, and that sort of suspicion directed against him would have been unhealthy.

Pride and fear have brought you here.

As the San Francisco-registered fishing trawler creaked among the bay’s waves, Lu flexed his pectorals. They were iron-hard. He could bench-press four hundred and forty-five pounds and had once broken a man’s hand simply by squeezing it. He’d apologized afterward and had felt guilty. Still, it had let everyone in the combat group know how strong he was.

Lu Po sighed. He was strong, and he was smart. He wondered what winning wrestling matches had to do with aiming a Dragon Claw missile. Practically nothing was the answer. The wrestling matches had been about winning the chance to go on a suicide mission for China. It was a morale-booster. It showed the remaining White Tigers what a hero the winners were. It made the others proud to belong to such a warrior elite.

We wrestled for the chance to die heroically for China.

While shaking his head, Lu looked up at the fleecy clouds. It was funny, but there were clouds just like this in Taipei Harbor where he’d trained. Yet this was America. To be precise, it was San Francisco and the City by the Bay was home to two precious American supercarriers.

As Lu listened to the waves lap against the fishing trawler, he spied a soaring seagull.

It’s such a perfect day. I’d like to fly away from here. Yes, what is my pride worth now? I won the matches, but none of the others will remember me fifteen years from now.

Lu scanned San Francisco Bay. He avoided looking at the two supercarriers docked four kilometers away. It was too painful just yet. The city, with its large buildings, looked like Taipei. He’d liked to visit San Francisco and go to Chinatown to taste their clam chowder.

Blowing out his cheeks in frustration, Lu knew that would never happen. He was here to win eternal glory for his country. He’d joined the White Tigers for the same reason many young men did: to win a marriage permit. He’d never have sex with a woman now, and he wanted to do that more than anything else in life.

Instead, I’m about to die.

“First Rank, when do we begin?” shouted Fighter Rank Wang from a distance.

Lu winced and his iron-hard stomach tightened. If he’d had his shirt off, that tightening would have shown his muscled abs. He’d always wanted to sit naked next to a girl on a bed and flex for her, letting her see what a strong man was about to lay on her. He’d always wanted to listen to a girl exclaim how powerful he looked. Then he wanted to make her sing with urgency as she and he became one. But in China there were no longer enough girls to go around.

“First Rank—”

“I heard you!” shouted Lu.

A “fisherman” in yellow slicker-garb turned abruptly, staring at him. The fisherman was a Dong Dianshan—an East Lightning political officer—here to bolster their resolve.

He means to shoot us if we lose our nerve.

Lu Po scowled. He resented the “fisherman,” the need for East Lightning to sully the operation by their presence. If Lu changed the order of procedure, he and his fellow Commandos could more easily make their escape afterward. The political officer staring at him would never agree to change the procedure, however, because such a change would lower the odds of mission success by several percentage points.

Puffing, Fighter Rank Wang reached Lu’s place at the back of the trawler. “We must begin the operation,” the smaller Commando said. “It is time and we have reached the optimum location.”

“Do you want to die?” Lu asked him.

Wang was smaller and lighter. He’d won the martial arts combat. The White Tiger was phenomenally quick and stronger than his skinny muscles would lead one to believe.

“I want to destroy the carriers,” Wang said.

“As do I,” said Lu. “But that wasn’t my question. Do you want to live?”

“Not at the price of cowardice.”

“No one is suggesting such a thing.”

“I think you are,” said Wang. “You are showing hesitation in the face of the enemy.”

“I can crush a man’s hand with my own,” said Lu.

Wang cocked his head.

“Stand aside,” said Lu. “The political officer wishes to make a speech.”

The East Lightning political officer in the slicker garb approached warily. He had narrow features, with a stray lock of hair over his eyes.

“It is time to destroy the carriers,” the political officer said.

“Yes,” said Lu.

“You must arm the missiles and fire them.”

“First,” Lu said, “I would like to lower the T-9s into the water, activate their batteries, and don my wetsuit and scuba gear.”

The political officer blinked rapidly before shaking his head. “You will follow procedures.” He snaked a hand through the front of his slicker, no doubt to the butt of a pistol tucked behind his belt.

“Of course I shall,” said Lu, bowing his head and hardening his resolve. All along, he should have realized it had to be this way. He was a White Tiger Commando. He would do what needed doing and with a minimum of fuss.

“I apologize for being tardy,” Lu said. It was difficult to do, but he tried to look contrite.

The political officer squinted at him and nodded slowly as he removed the hand from inside the slicker. “We are making the ultimate sacrifice,” he said.

“No,” Lu said. “You are.” He grabbed the man’s nearest hand and squeezed with all his strength.

The political officer’s eyes bugged outward. His mouth opened and a bellow began. Lu yanked the political officer against him and clamped his free hand over the man’s mouth. He took a two-handed grip around the man’s head, laying his right forearm against it so part of his arm lay over the man’s right ear. Then he twisted his arms in opposite directions, hard and fast. The political officer shuddered as his neck broke. The cracking sound was quieter than Lu would have imagined. He felt the strength ooze from the dying man. He released. The political officer thudded onto the deck, banging his head. Lu knelt and withdrew the police automatic.

“What have you done?” cried Wang.

“Increased our chances for survival,” said Lu. His heart pounded as a great sense of exhilaration flowed through him. He noted Wang’s shock. Standing, with the gun pointed negligibly at Wang’s belly, Lu said, “I must ask you a question, soldier.”

Wang glanced at the gun and into Lu’s eyes. He nodded without fear.

“Are you my brother,” asked Lu, “my fellow Commando?”

“I won’t tell anyone…how the political officer lost his life in service to China,” Wang said.

Lu shook his head. “That isn’t what I mean.”

“You must speak to me, brother, and tell me what I should do.”

“Do you still have your knife?” asked Lu.

“…yes.”

“Then go below and kill the third political officer.”

“What about the second Dong Dianshan with the captain?” Wang asked.

“I will kill him myself.”

“Then?” asked Wang.

“Then we will lower the T-9s, don wetsuits and scuba gear—”

“What about our mission?” Wang cried.

“Calm yourself, Fighter Rank. We will complete it after we’ve readied our escape.”

“The others on the trawler—”

“Are under deep cover and will still take their inflatables to shore and blend in among the mongrel hordes of America.”

Wang hesitated several seconds, glancing a second time at Lu’s gun. Finally, he nodded.

“Good,” said Lu. He hadn’t wanted to kill Wang, but he couldn’t trust the man unless Wang helped him murder the rest of the East Lightning political officers and thereby comprised himself. “Let’s go,” Lu said. “We don’t have much time.”

The High Commander of the White Tigers hadn’t explained the strategic importance of the mission to Lu. He hadn’t needed too. Lu understood perfectly.

The American Navy had six supercarriers. Twenty years ago in 2012, they’d had eleven such ships. Money had been tight for the American Defense establishment and cuts had been made all around. During the bleakest years, the American Navy had decommissioned carriers, along with other vessels.

The Chinese Navy, on the other hand, had known massive growth. China presently boasted eight supercarriers, meaning any aircraft carrier over 70,000 tons. If the White Tigers could destroy these two American carriers, that would give China a two-to-one advantage. And the short-term advantage would be even larger. Two American supercarriers were on the other side of the continent in the Atlantic Ocean. It would take time for them to reach the Pacific and then Alaska. During that time, China would have a four-to-one advantage in carriers.

The Chinese carriers were newer, with state-of-the-art fighter-jets. The pilots had also logged three times the flight hours as their American counterparts. Taken all together, it should grant nearly total sea superiority to the Chinese Navy during the Alaskan Invasion.

However, these things could only be achieved if the American carriers sheltering in San Francisco Bay were destroyed. The importance of the present mission was critical, the reason no doubt why the High Commander had wanted his best warriors performing the operation. Lu wondered if that had been the reason for the wrestling and martial arts matches.

First Rank Lu Po helped Wang struggle into his wetsuit. Using heavy-fiber rope, the other White Tigers splashed the two T-9s into the water beside the trawler.

“If we fail because of this…,” whispered Wang.

Lu laughed grimly. He’d shot the second political officer in the gut. The policeman had actually asked him why. For an answer, Lu had finished him with a shot to the heart. Lu had then explained the new order of procedure to the trawler captain. The deep-cover Chinese aboard ship acting as crew were not going to be a problem.

“We will destroy the carriers and live to earn our rewards,” Lu said.

“Someone on shore or in a nearby boat might have noticed our actions and radioed about us to the Americans,” Wang said.

“Look around you. No one is near, and we’re kilometers from the carriers.”

“Do you think a submarine will really be out there for us?”

Lu paused. He hadn’t thought about that. A second later, he shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about the rescue submarine. We will proceed with the plan and hope that the Navy possesses men of honor.”

“You mean proceed with your altered plan,” Wang said.

With one arm, Lu hoisted Wang’s scuba tanks. He used the other hand to slap his comrade on the back. “You’re a worrier, so worry if you want. I’m telling you, though, that we’re about to turn ourselves into legends.”

“How can you be so calm about this?”

Because I’ve just improved my percentages of survival. Lu didn’t say that aloud. Instead, he told Wang, “This is China’s hour, and the Americans are living on borrowed time. Didn’t they borrow our money for decades?”

Wang laughed, nodding.

“Let’s do it,” Lu said.

In their wetsuits, the two moved to a large tarp. The knots had already been undone. Wang gripped the tarp and dragged it off, revealing a missile-launcher. Inside the giant tube was a Dragon Claw missile. It had a turbojet engine with solid propellant fuel. The warhead was two hundred and thirty kilograms of CHKR-57 explosive. Its wingspan was one point seven meters, and the missile was a ship-killer.

Lu unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt and pressed a button. “Are you ready?”

“Roger,” came the reply.

Clipping the walkie-talkie back to his belt, First Rank Lu Po went to the firing location. He’d practiced this in Taipei Harbor over one hundred times on a simulator, and two times with live missiles. He put his eye to the rangefinder, locating the massive carrier several kilometers across the bay. The Americans had once called the destruction of the Japanese Navy during an air/naval battle off the Marianas Islands during World War Two a “turkey-shoot.” This would be a Chinese turkey-shoot.

Lu’s palms became unaccountably moist. Now was the moment and he had become nervous. It troubled him. The High Commander had told them they were the best soldiers the world had ever produced and were therefore superior to normal men. Normal men shook and sweated under stress. A White Tiger calmly went about his duties. The truth was otherwise, it seemed. Lu wiped his moist palms on his wetsuit as he said, “Turn it on.”

Wang clicked on the radar, and in three seconds, it beeped. “We have lock-on,” Wang said excitedly.

Lu nodded, stared at the huge carrier through the rangefinder, reveling in the feeling in his stomach. It fluttered with butterflies, with nerves. He rather liked the feeling. It told him he was alive, on the edge of life. Ah, life was indeed precious and to risk it, what a keen moment this was. He would never forget this. Slowly, he pressed the firing button.

There was a loud ripping sound. The entire trawler trembled. The ejector blew out the missile as its thrusters roared into life. The noise was tremendous—indescribable. Lu kept the rangefinder centered on the mighty vessel. He would use radio beams to guide the altered missile on target. He would do this by keeping the ship in his sights.

“It’s skimming over the water!” shouted Wang.

A second missile roared into life. If the others had done their task correctly, it would hit the second carrier.

“This is beautiful,” Wang said in an awed voice.

Lu wanted to look up and see. Instead, he kept his eye glued to the target. No jets catapulted off the flight deck. No anti-missile rounds streaked into the air. Instead—

The Dragon Claw missile smashed into the side of the USS Ronald Reagan. A microsecond later, a titanic explosion erupted. Men, flight deck and jet parts flew skyward. An intense fireball barreled into existence. Then the second missile hit, igniting within the second American carrier.

“We must fire another round!” shouted Lu.

The shockwave hit them then. It was a victorious feeling that ruffled Lu’s hair.

Together, the two teams launched two more missiles. Their training proved exquisite and more than justified. Two more altered Dragon Claw missiles skimmed the water and struck the burning supercarriers in the distance. Now at last, far away in the sky, two specks appeared.

“Aircraft!” shouted Wang.

“It’s time to leave!” shouted Lu.

He and Wang sprinted for the other side of the trawler. By following the old procedure, they would never have had time to don wetsuits and scuba tanks. This way, they could possibly escape and dive with the T-9s into the depths of the harbor.

The deep-cover trawler crew already roared away in their inflatables.

“Jump!” shouted Lu. He leaped overboard, plummeted and hit the water with his feet. His flippers were attached to his belt. Curling, with water gurgling in his ears, he halted his descent and groped for his flippers. It seemed like forever before they were on his feet. With several sharp kicks, he headed for the surface. Soon, he spied the nearest T-9 floundering in the sea. He swam harder and climbed aboard at the controls.

“Go,” said Wang, who had crawled on with him.

Lu turned on the T-9. It vibrated with power. He yanked the controls and began to dive, the craft’s propeller spinning wildly. Behind him, he heard the roar of fighter-launched air-to-ship missiles. Then a terrific explosion occurred. He looked back at the last moment. Debris was flying from the trawler. Then Lu’s head was underwater and he faced forward. There was another explosion that hurt his ears. He revved the T-9 and fled at full power, all the time diving deeper into the bay.

He had done it. He’d eliminated two American carriers and he was making his getaway. If the rescue submarine was out there, he would return to China as a hero, providing Wang could keep his mouth shut about killing the East Lightning political officers.

As Lu turned the T-9 slightly, aiming for the San Francisco Bay exit, he wondered if he should stop along the way and kill Wang for good measure. It was probably better to be sure than to trust a talker.

He’d think about it. There was no need to do it yet. He would make the decision once he’d actually gotten away and was out at sea. For now, he needed his wits, some luck, and more than his share of good karma. Ah, life was glorious indeed. He was a legend, and he’d broken an East Lightning political officer’s hand before killing him. Life was not only good—it was sweet.

It had been several days now since Anna had confronted Colin Green. She had gone home, as he’d ordered. Shortly thereafter, several of Mr. Green’s security people had shown up. To her astonishment, they had told her she was recuperating from an illness and would need to stay inside for the next few days.

She’d tried her cell phone, but it hadn’t worked. Nor had her computer.

“This is kidnapping!” she declared.

The chief security agent had merely shaken his head. “We’re here to see that you have a full recovery, Ms. Chen. Then you’ll return to work.”

Anna presently sat in her living room, switching between CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC. She watched the ongoing coverage of the sneak carrier attack.

The two supercarriers were wrecks. Susan Salisbury of Fox News—a stunning redhead and a former Miss America—stood at the end of Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco with a microphone in her hand. Behind her in the distance was the USS Ronald Reagan. She spoke about possible repairs, mentioning the Japanese sneak attack in World War Two. After Pearl Harbor, the enemies fought the Battle of Coral Sea. Among other things, the Japanese had damaged a carrier named Yorktown. With her glossy red lips, Susan Salisbury told the audience how American servicemen had repaired the vintage carrier so it could fight in the critical battle of Midway in 1942. Her manner suggested the same sort of repairs might occur today with the Ronald Reagan.

Looking at the wreckage on the TV, Anna Chen doubted that.

“Has there been any further news concerning the identity of the terrorists making the attacks?” asked the prim Fox anchor, Don Howard.

“I’ve heard there’s several murdered fisherman aboard the trawler,” Susan Salisbury said. “They were killed assassin-style, apparently before the sneak attack took place. The authorities have reason to believe the boat was hijacked by Taiwanese extremists.”

“That’s very interesting, Susan,” the anchor said. “Retired General Ross is waiting in the Green Room. General, could you explain to our audience why Taiwanese extremists might wish to stage such an assault on our carriers.”

As white-haired, retired General Ross appeared on the TV, the apartment’s front door opened. Pressing mute with her remote, Anna looked up.

Two new security agents moved into the living room. They scanned the premises, wearing dark sunglasses and with jacks in their ears. They ignored the blond agent watching TV with Anna.

The National Security Advisor to the President, Colin Green, entered the room behind them. His gray hair was perfectly styled and his three-thousand dollar suit looked as if it had just been taken off a rack. “Outside, everyone,” he said crisply. “I need to speak to her alone.”

As the others filed outside, Green adjusted his tie. It seemed like an unconscious gesture. He had an expensive gold ring with a dark stone on his finger, showing he was married.

“You’ve been watching the news?” asked Green. He moved to the couch but didn’t sit down.

“You’ve had me kidnapped,” Anna said.

The National Security Advisor stared at her. All warmth fled from him, leaving the naked, calculating man visible—the one who had climbed high in American political life. He took an audible breath and abruptly sat beside her. “I don’t think you understand the situation, Ms. Chen.”

“Yes I do,” said Anna. “The Chinese destroyed two American carriers.”

“Chinese…why not Taiwanese extremists?” he asked.

“I have a request to make,” she said.

He frowned. “Now see here, Ms. Chen. You must understand—” He scowled. “Do you happen to know what it means if China and America hurl their ICBMs at each other? I know what the experts say. The laser defense systems and the anti-missile rockets would shoot down nearly ninety-five percent of the attack. I’ve read the reports. The Chinese are sure they have a superior system, and we have American know-how. Let me tell you something. That’s a load of crap. The ICBM-people have their bright ideas on how to counter the defenses: reflector strips, spinning projectiles, aerosol clouds and armored ICBMs. It means it’s just like football, a game between offense and defense, and both sides are always coming up with something revolutionary that will change everything. Believe me, that’s all a load, too. It isn’t revolutionary and never will be because nothing works exactly how you think it’s going to. There is no perfect plan—ever. Therefore, if China and America hurl their ICBMs at each other, it would be a worldwide holocaust because more missiles would get through than either side believes. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want that on my conscience. In fact, I so don’t want that on my conscience that I’ll make some very hard decisions about people like you to save millions of others.”

“That’s why you kidnapped me?”

“You’re my China expert, right?” Green said.

After several heartbeats, Anna said, “I tried to warn you about—”

Green made a sharp gesture as he said, “That’s already water under the bridge. We’re a long ways past that, believe me.” He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of the inside pocket of his suit. Extracting one, he stuck the cigarette between his lips and clicked a lighter, inhaling as he lit it. Leaving the pack and lighter on the coffee table, he took the cigarette and exhaled smoke through his nostrils.

“You’re not a Buddhist or Taoist by any chance?” he asked.

“No.”

“And you’re my Chinese expert?”

Anna turned away from the smoke. It smelled foul. “I am not anyone’s expert anymore.”

He dragged on the cigarette, as he seemed to study the ceiling. “You and I have had what I call a miscommunication. We’ve both made some mistakes. I’m willing to admit mine. Why can’t you admit yours?”

“I didn’t make a mistake.”

“Ah, there you are. You’re too proud, too stubborn. Look at me, girl.” He put a hand on his chest. “I was trying to stop a war. I want to save the planet. Hell, I’m trying to save the human race from annihilating itself.”

“You have the same evidence I do. Surely, you must have realized we were about to be attacked.”

“I don’t like American oil rigs exploding,” Green said. “I don’t like having oil pollute our beaches with tons of crude, killing generations of irreplaceable wildlife. But that’s a long, long way from wanting to start a nuclear war with China over it.”

“They’re about to invade Alaska.”

Green hunched toward her. “That’s an incredible leap of logic. It would mean war, a massive war. Look what happened when the Japanese struck at Pearl Harbor or al-Qaeda blew up the World Trade Center. We went ape, nuking two cities one time and invading countless countries the other. Can you imagine what we’d do if China actually invaded American soil?”

“We’re not as powerful now as we were then,” Anna said.

“Those are practically treasonous words. We’re America. We’d go to war with China for a hundred years if they did something like that.”

“Well,” said Anna, pointing at the TV. “Then we’d better get started, because they’re already at war with us.”

Green frowned as he stared at the TV. “Why do you think this happened? Can you tell me?”

“I’ve been telling you. It’s because of Alaska.”

“You’d better start explaining what that means instead of just blabbing the same words over and over.”

“Carriers are the best ships in our Navy,” Anna said.

“I have people who tell me differently. If you remember, we had to move our carriers away from Taiwan when the Chinese invaded there.”

“Because of the nearness of the Chinese airfields,” Anna said.

“Whatever,” Green said. “We’re not here to argue naval tactics. I want to know first, why would the Chinese dare to go to war with us? And second—well, answer me the first one first.”

“Food,” said Anna. “They’re hungry. But I know you know that. You’re one of the architects to the Grain Union.”

“Not one of,” said Green, “The architect of it.”

“Admiral Carlos Fox of Argentina first suggested it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Green said testily. “Let’s go back to this idea about China needing food. We offered them a trade deal in Sydney. I helped draft the brief myself. We were getting ready to agree to a massive trade of oil-for-grain. Deng Fong himself came in secret, I think as a sign of their serious intent. Then, a few hours before the meeting, someone blows up our oil rig.”

“The Chinese blew it up.”

“That’s crazy! The Chairman runs China. I know he’s ailing, but everyone knows nothing happens over there without his permission.”

“Everyone may know that,” Anna said, “but the Chinese blew up the rig just the same.”

“Bah. Give me a good reason why they would do something so foolish. It doesn’t make sense.”

Anna pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I don’t have a good reason why. I don’t understand that part of it yet. What’s important is that they’re making these moves. They blew the oil rig, maybe even to stop the meeting in Sydney. Now they’ve destroyed two carriers, crippling our Navy in the Pacific. This all points to one thing: they’re attempting a surprise attack. Historically, it’s the Chairman’s trademark method. The proof is obvious: Siberia and Taiwan.”

“A surprise attack? Like Pearl Harbor?”

“Only much bigger,” said Anna. “Imagine a Pearl Harbor where the Japanese brought troops and invaded Hawaii in order to keep it.”

“And you’re saying they want Alaska why?”

“Do you even look at the source evidence uncovered by our agencies?” Anna asked.

Mashing the cigarette into a coffee saucer, Green scowled. “I don’t need a smart mouth, young lady. I need answers to give to the President. So far, you haven’t told me anything useful.”

“You should let me speak to the President,” Anna said. “I know the Chairman better than anyone else in Washington.”

Colin Green turned away, becoming thoughtful. Finally, he grunted as he stood. “I want you back at the White House. You’re to prepare a brief for the President. I thought I was stopping a war before. It looks like I was wrong. Will you serve your country?”

Anna knew then she was never going to get an apology from him for what he’d done. “Yes,” she said.

“Good. Then let’s go.”

Captain Han Qiang of the Chinese Space Service sat at his remote control panel. He was deep underground in the Command Bunker. The east wall of his cubicle held a large computer screen. On it was a collage of Japanese schoolgirls in plaid skirts and knee-high socks of varying colors.

He was a plump man in his late thirties, with the top two buttons of his uniform undone. Because of his thinning hair, he had shaved himself bald. He had several computers surrounding him. The Meng 950Z to the side contained his gaming information. He had just been playing the game Lord Yamato, his ninety-eighth level character, Ur-dominator, the deadliest soldier in the Nangsi World. He’d just logged off, because a priority AAA signal had beeped.

Cracking his knuckles, Captain Han Qiang activated the forward cameras of his Red Thunder missile. It was the latest in Chinese satellite-killer technology and had rocketed up out of the thermosphere some time ago.

Han pressed his tongue against the gap between his front teeth, blowing air through them. He did it when he was excited. An image on the screen appeared. It showed the stars. The Red Thunder was in Low Earth Orbit, or LEO, which was between the atmosphere and below the inner Van Allen radiation belt. In kilometers, that was one hundred and sixty to two thousand kilometers above the Earth’s surface.

Han shoved his fingers into twitch gloves. With practiced ease, he twitched his fingers. The signal left the tower built over the command center in Mukden. Han rotated his missile, making the star patterns change. The Earth appeared below on his screen, making Han blow harder between the gap of his two front teeth. He twitched more as he activated the grid pattern and external radar. Seconds later, the grid map appeared on his screen, with an American Osprey recon satellite blinking red at the left corner.

Han made rapid calculations, swiveled in his chair to glance at his second favorite Japanese girl and twitched a finger, applying thrust to the Red Thunder.

Eight hundred kilometers above the Earth, the Red Thunder missile hunted the Osprey satellite.

Captain Han was aware that Space Service and Army generals would be watching his progress in the Nexus Command Center. This was his moment to shine, and he grinned, relaxing because he was the best at what he did. This was nothing like running Ur-dominator in the computer games. This was pathetically simple. Still, he needed success here. It would help him gain his request of “pit” remote controlling with the latest virtual reality imaging.

The intercom light on his Red Thunder screen blinked pink. It meant a message came from Nexus Command.

“It’s moving,” a general told him.

“I’m tracking, sir,” said Captain Han, while clicking a button, making the microphone several centimeters from his lips live. He wore a Lord Yamato headset, using it instead of the Command Center electronics. Lord Yamato was Japanese and of superior workmanship. Han grinned. It was good the general had warned him of the recon satellite’s movement. Of course, he’d seen it moving. He’d simply waited for one of them to see it. Yes, that had frightened the old general and it must have made him wonder if the young captain could achieve success at this critical moment. This would improve his success, because it would now stand higher in their eyes and possibly gain him a recommendation.

The precise reason why he needed to kill the American recon satellite, he did not know, although he had some ideas. Truthfully, he didn’t care why. It wasn’t any more real to him than Ur-dominator in Lord Yamato.

He saw that the recon satellite was over the Arctic Circle. The rumors concerning an invasion of Alaska must have merit.

Captain Han had been in the Space Service since his graduation from high school. He had gone to college on the Space Service’s coin. In the early days, he’d been in the Laser Anti-Ballistic Missile branch of the service. Huge laser batteries stationed at strategic locations and connected to the power-grid protected China from Russian, Indian and American ICBMs. Once the enemy missiles lofted, the giant lasers would target them. Either they would target them during boost phase or in space during mid-flight, which could last as long as twenty-five minutes. Space-based mirrors high over China would help them shoot over-the-horizon. America also had a laser defense system. It would likely stop the majority of China’s ICBMs, if that day ever came.

Each country’s high-powered lasers also routinely burned down enemy satellites that attempted to fly over their country on spy missions. It was much harder for the Americans to snoop on China with recon satellites than, say, twenty years ago, when it had been routine. China also found it difficult to spy on America via recon satellites. One answer had been to launch powerful boosters to send the spy satellites into higher and higher orbit.

Captain Han had heard rumors about a Moon base. The Moon would make an excellent warfare platform against the Earth, since it held the high ground. It was much easier raining objects down on the Earth than sending objects up from the surface, especially to attack the distant Moon.

Captain Han had thought about applying for a berth on the new Moon base, but construction was still a good five years from the implementation stage. By then he hoped to be married.

“Captain!” the general said over the intercom.

“I’m working on it,” Captain Han said, lacing his voice with concern. He smirked. This couldn’t be easier.

The Osprey blinked red on the grid of his screen. It was no longer in the corner, but nearing the center. Over the center four squares was a target symbol. Once the enemy satellite was in that, he would depress a button.

He glanced at his timer. That should occur under five minutes.

After the minutes had passed, the general said over the intercom, “Kill it.”

Captain Han wanted to activate his microphone again and whisper one word: Patience. He was certain the general would not enjoy a captain telling him that, however. The general wanted the Osprey dead, didn’t he? Then he should let Ur-dominator do his work without interruption.

“Captain,” the general said. “The recon satellite is in position.”

Stung that anyone should tell Ur-dominator his business, Captain Han activated the microphone. “Respectfully, sir, this is an Osprey e7b3 model. It’s the Americans’ most heavily armored recon satellite. I do not simply wish to wound it, but destroy its capacity to scan.”

“It’s moving!” someone shouted in Nexus Command.

Nodding and feeling vindicated, Captain Han took a moment to glance at his favorite girl. Oh, he’d love to run his hands over those legs. One of these days—

“If it escapes, Captain,” the general said, “there will be severe repercussions.”

“Escapes?” Han asked. “Not from me, sir.”

Han didn’t know if the Osprey had a flee program or if an American operator now steered it away from him. In twenty-eight seconds, it wouldn’t matter. Given its flight path, the amount of fuel an Osprey carried, and its known engine size, there were only a few vectors that would make sense in its flight.

Therefore—Captain Han twitched his gloved fingers. The signal stabbed into space at the speed of light. The Red Thunder missile obeyed orders like the good robot it was. Han watched his screen. The red dot wobbled, seemed to veer slightly left, and then it fairly leaped into the center of his four target-symbol squares.

“You are mine,” said Han, as he blew through the gap between his two front teeth.

He depressed a button. The kill signal beamed from the tower in Mukden and into space. In seconds, the radio signal reached the box-like missile. Deep inside it, a fuse burned out. The delay lasted four more milliseconds. Then eight hundred and thirty-one kilometers above the surface of the Earth, the Chinese missile exploded. The four point three kilogram explosive expelled over ten thousand pellet-sized pieces of shrapnel in all directions. Fifty-seven of those pellets tore into the Osprey. Seventeen pierced the armor and destroyed the delicate recon equipment. The American satellite continued to exist, but as a torn piece of junk, unable to fulfill its mission.

In Mukden, fifty-meters below the ground in an old coalmine, Captain Han sagged back against his chair. A perfect kill—he’d done it again. He was Ur-dominator and no one could defeat him.

Paul Kavanagh didn’t know anything about the burning carriers in San Francisco Bay. Nor was he aware that high above him in Low Earth Orbit, a Chinese satellite-killer had just destroyed an American Osprey.

The effectively destroyed Osprey continued its orbit and would soon fly over the North Pole. Its cameras and radar would have swept over the oil rig frozen in the Arctic ice. It would have scanned, but not anymore. Therefore, the activity several kilometers from the oil rig was presently hidden from any American or any oil company personnel.

On the pack ice, Paul Kavanagh trudged in his snow boots. It was cold, dark and lonely. In the distance winked the derrick lights, the only manmade structure for a thousand miles. Wind blew across the bleak landscape, occasionally blowing dry snow like sand across a desert.

Paul wore a fur-lined hood, a parka and thick gloves. He carried a flashlight in one hand and used a radar-gun in the other, checking the depth of the perimeter ice. Today, he took a wide circuit around the rig. He searched for unlikely cracks or pressure ridges, which would indicate “plates” of ice grinding against each other. Grinding ice-plates built up pressure ridges just as the pushing continents had once caused mountains to rise into existence.

This far north, the ice froze hard and it froze thick. At first, it had been a terrible feeling, knowing that he walked across the Arctic Ocean. There was no land anywhere nearby, just ice. If suddenly the sun should appear and melt the ice….

It was a foolish but atavistic fear, nearly impossible to root out completely. It was foolish because for one thing, the sun couldn’t appear for months. It wasn’t even winter yet. For another thing, even if it would appear, it lacked the heat to melt polar ice. Well, a sudden solar flare might give the sun enough heat to melt the ice. But a flare that large would also burn out almost all life on the planet just as had occurred in the old movie Knowing.

Paul scowled as he clicked the trigger, aiming the radar-gun at the ice.

Red Cloud is giving me makeshift work, hoping I get lost out here. The Algonquin wants me dead.

Paul halted and blew out his cheeks in frustration. Hooking the radar-gun onto his belt, he slid his rifle’s strap from his shoulder. He carried an old M14 rifle, a relic.

“In case you chance upon a polar bear,” Red Cloud had told him.

Yeah, right. Paul would have rather carried a big revolver with heavy caliber bullets. He certainly wasn’t going to spot a white bear at a distance. What was he supposed to do, lie down on the ice and sniper the polar bear to death? A heavy revolver or a machine pistol to pump bullets into the beast, that’s what he needed. This old rifle was only good for one thing: punishment detail, which is clearly what Red Cloud meant perimeter duty to be.

Paul wouldn’t have minded if he’d gotten full pay, and if he could have stayed here for another four months. He’d been fined, working at half pay as he waited for the mechanic to repair the plane’s engine. At half pay, he hadn’t even made enough yet to cover his various expenses.

I didn’t shoot your friends during the war, Geronimo. Why take their deaths out on me?

Paul blinked in frustration at the ice. Of all things, it appeared as if Murphy was going to stay, but not him. Paul could hardly believe it.

Staring up at the stars, Paul stood there, surprised. The stars were beautiful. He craned his neck and stared, his gaze scanning back and forth, taking in the immensity of the universe. Slowly, a feeling of awe began to overtake him. I’m just a speck in the universe, a tiny mote crawling over the surface of a spinning rock.

His problems suddenly didn’t seem so big. Compared to the size of the universe, his anger almost seemed foolish. He felt small and insignificant. It was a bad feeling. Then it hit him, a terrible feeling of loss. It had felt this way the first couple of days after Cheri had told him she wanted a divorce.

Mikey…Cheri…why am I not at home with you? Why did we ever get divorced?

Paul Kavanagh shook his head. He wanted to start over. He wanted to get it right for once. What do I have to do differently? Where had his life gone wrong? Had it been before Quebec or after it? Maybe it had been in continuation school. Maybe it had been before that.

If I can’t get it right, I can at least make sure I help the two people I love.

Nodding, he pulled off his right glove and dug into his parka. He’d walked into Red Cloud’s hut several days ago when he knew the others were either asleep or outside. Paul had the odd schedule, often working alone as night guard. Rummaging in the Algonquin’s desk, he’d found his cell phone in the bottom drawer and taken it. If he was only getting half-pay, then he was only half of the company’s employee. As he stood alone out here on the pack ice, Paul took the cell phone out of his parka and managed a sour grin.

It hurt the cold corner of his mouth. He didn’t wear a ski mask anymore, letting his growth of whiskers do the job for him.

Look at this. He had a single bar on the cell. They had a cell-phone relay cube at the base. Someone must have forgotten to take it offline, which they usually did so people like him couldn’t phone home. It was a new policy since the destruction of the Californian oil rig. Many in the business were certain the blown oil well had been an inside job.

Paul clicked off his flashlight, hooking it to his belt. He then punched in Cheri’s numbers and listened to it ring.

“Paul?” she asked, answering the call.

“Hey baby, I’m still near at the North Pole.”

“What do you mean ‘still’?” she asked. “Have they fired you?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong? I can hear by your voice that something is.”

Paul shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I’m going to give you my account number. There isn’t much left in it, maybe five hundred bucks now.”

“You got fired,” she said, sounding dispirited.

“My boss is an Algonquin warrior.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“I’m trying to tell you. He’s Algonquin—Red Cloud fought in Quebec, in the Canadian Shield. Algonquin is an Indian name,” he said, “a tribal name. They fought with the French-Canadian separatists. I remember going up against some Algonquin soldiers during the war. They were sneaky in the woods. I remember they trapped Joe and we had to fight our way out.”

“You fought against the French Indians?” Cheri asked.

“Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

“So your boss is an Indian, too?”

“One that hates U.S. Marines.”

“He fired you?”

“Technically not yet, but he will soon.”

“He can’t just fire you because you’re a Marine or were a Marine.”

“You’d be surprised what these guys can do. Anyway, that’s not important right now. I’m going to give you my account number. I want you to empty it and use the money.”

“…I don’t know,” Cheri said.

“Do you have a paper and pen?”

“Okay,” she said. “Just a minute.”

“Sure,” Paul said, hearing her set the phone on a counter. He tried to picture his ex. What time was it over there?

He heard a click and then the line went dead.

“Hello?” Paul asked. Nothing—the line was pure dead. “Stupid phone,” he said, punching in the numbers again. He listened, but it was still dead. “What the heck?” he said. Then he saw the bars on his cell—or the lack of them.

Paul’s features tightened. Someone had just taken the relay cube offline. Now Cheri would think he’d hung up on her.

“That’s it,” Paul said. It was the final straw.

He thrust the cell into his parka, shoved his hand back into the thick glove, and picked up his M14. He slung the leather strap over his shoulder and started marching for the base. It was time for a showdown with Red Cloud. The Algonquin wasn’t going to fire him and the French Indian was going to pay him full wages. If Paul had to shove a gun in Red Cloud’s belly to do it, he was going to persuade the Algonquin the hard way. Whatever it took.

“Firing me is discrimination,” Paul said aloud. Cheri was right. Red Cloud couldn’t fire him just because he’d been in the Marines. That was total B.S.

Paul marched back toward the base. After taking perhaps three hundred steps, he heard crackling sounds in the distance. Before he was aware of it, Paul thudded onto the ice on his belly, the M14 in his hands. He stared wide-eyed at the derricks. The nearest one had a flashing red light that winked on and off, reminding him of an airplane warning light.

That sound: it had been small-arms machine gun fire. There was an Uzi on the Algonquin’s wall. Was Red Cloud out test-firing it?

Paul cocked his head as he heard the sound again. It wasn’t just one man firing a machine gun. It sounded as if an entire squad was opening up—killing.

Terrorists, Paul thought.

Adrenalin pumped through him. He found himself clutching his rifle and staring through the darkness at the frozen oil rig.

“Think,” he hissed at himself.

How did the terrorists get out here? Okay, there were three ways: They walked. They flew or they swam under the ice. Or they came by submarine.

If it was by submarine, it had to be Iran. “Wait, wait,” he whispered to himself.

Terrorists could have bought a plane, a smaller one, or several such planes. They could have landed several miles away and marched to the base. Yeah, that made a lot more sense than coming in by submarine.

Paul scrambled to his feet and began jogging toward the base. The cold air hit his lungs almost right away. It reminded him of Quebec. Hard memories and harder-learned lessons began surfacing. There were enemy combatants out there. It made his flesh tingle with the fear and adrenalin that always hit just before he knew he was going into a firefight.

Paul chambered a round. He had the one magazine in his rifle and two more in his pocket.

Dirty terrorists, killing oilmen trying to make a living for their families. Paul wondered briefly if this was Greenpeace. Some of the environmental people could get pretty worked up about these things. They might even have more expertise than al-Qaeda terrorists.

Paul heard shouts then and heavier machine gun fire. It sounded like the enemy had set-up kill zones.

Are they shooting everyone?

Skidding to a stop, Paul panted as cold mist steamed out of his mouth. He’d better start thinking. If the terrorists had infrared goggles, he would be exposed as he ran straight into the base.

I can’t crawl all the way there.

He shook his head. He doubted they would expect anyone out on the ice so far away. If they had infrared sights, they’d check several times and find it clear. Later, he’d surprise them.

The drifting shouts and the heavy machine gun fire—Paul lowered his head and began running. Half-pay or full, he was here and the enemy was killing good guys, the ones he’d been hired to protect.

I have an M14. Now it’s time to use it.

Twenty minutes later, Paul was stretched behind a pressure ridge. He peered over it, his rifle propped against the ice. The M14 had its uses. It was the last American battle rifle, meaning the last that fired full-power rifle ammunition. In this case, that was .308 Winchester. The rifle had a twenty-round detachable box magazine, and altogether weighed about twelve pounds. It had good accuracy at long-range—about eight hundred and seventy-five yards with optics. Paul used the selector switch and chose single-shot fire.

In the darkness of an Arctic night, the oil rig looked deserted. Then he saw a trio of men exit one of the buildings. In their parkas and heavy pants, they looked like stuffed dolls. Something seemed different about them, though, strange.

Using his teeth, Paul pulled off a glove. Carefully, he took off the caps to both ends of his Aimpoint 3000 red-dot scope. There was a special oil-film over each lens, which was supposed to keep them from fogging. Holding his breath, Paul edged his eye to his end of the sight.

The roly-poly men leaped into view. Some of the base’s lights had been shot out, but not all. Using the illumination, Paul saw what was different. It was the hats. They were fur, but didn’t cover the ears. On the front of each fur hat was a single star.

Blacksand didn’t use a star on their hats, nor did the oilmen.

Paul studied the three men. They looked Asian. Maybe they were Chinese or Korean. Either way, that meant Greater China. As that hit him, Paul rolled onto his back and slid fully behind the pressure ridge. Staring up at the stars, he tried to think this through. Why would Chinese soldiers kill oilmen? How did the soldiers get here?

“Does it matter?” he whispered. The fact they were here was what was important, not how or even why.

Slowly, Paul rolled back onto his belly and propped the M14 on the pressure ridge. He studied the three soldiers. They carried QBZ-23s. Qing Buqiang Zidong.

Paul read gun magazines, and he’d read about the QBZ-23 before. It had been designed from the QBZ-95, first made in 1995. The QBZ-23 had been developed in 2023. Each assault rifle had a bullpup configuration, meaning the weapon’s action and curved magazine were located behind the grip and trigger assembly. The magazine held forty 5.8 x 42mm DBP24, which meant Standard Rifle Cartridge 2024. Older-style bullets used an eject-able cartridge case. The DBP24 was embedded in a solid cake of propellant, which was consumed once the bullet was fired. Case-less ammo lowered bulk and weight, and it increased the number of rounds per magazine.

Paul began scanning the camp. He saw dead men lying on the ice. There were oilmen and some Blacksand guards. By the nearest derrick, different Asians were attaching something to the metal. If he were going to bet, he’d call it explosives.

Paul turned his head away from the scope and blew the hottest breath he could muster against his fingers. He could go in and try to surrender. The dead men on the snow made it seem like a bad idea, though. If these were Chinese or Korean soldiers or Special Forces, would they bother taking him prisoner? He doubted it. So how was he supposed to get home?

Paul Kavanagh laughed to himself. He wasn’t getting home. Whom was he fooling? He’d taken a one-way ticket to the North Pole, or as near to it as he was ever going to get in his lifetime. Yeah, he’d been screwed many times, but this was the worst screwing of them all.

“Are you just going to take it?” he asked himself. Heck no. You’re going to fight and take down as many as those creeps as you can. Besides, they had cut his connection to Cheri. She needed the money and now she’d never get it.

“Say your prayers, boys,” he whispered. As he squeezed the trigger, Paul didn’t know it, but he was grinning fiercely.

The rifle boomed and kicked him hard in the shoulder. It was a relic, but the M14 was powerful and it was the right kind of weapon for what needed doing now.

One of the three roly-poly soldiers trudging to the derrick where the demolition men worked fell down hard. He had a hole in his back, between his shoulder blades. Paul saw it all in his scope and in the oil rig’s light. Swiveling the M14 slightly, he fired again. Another Chinese soldier hit the ice. The last one spun around, dropping to one knee and lifting his assault rifle. It had a fancy scope, fancy enough that Paul suspected it had infrared capability. A three-bullet burst ripped in the night from the QBZ-23. It told Paul he was dealing with a professional. Most surprised men would have fired the entire magazine all at once. That soldier had been carefully taught fire control.

As the three bullets ripped out of the assault rifle, Paul saw flames erupt from the barrel. Paul fired back, but missed. Finally, the enemy combatant had the wits to drop onto his belly. The Chinese or Korean soldier with the star on his fur hat put the fancy scope to his eye. He began sweeping his rifle, no doubt looking for the shooter. Holding his breath, Paul squeezed the trigger. It was the best shot of the night, a hole in the man’s face, making him relax dead on the ice.

Ducking behind the pressure ridge, Paul crawled like mad to a new location. There was no telling how many of the enemy were out there and there was no telling what kind of weaponry they had. A heavy machine gun would make quick work of him, pressure ridge or no.

Five shots in rapid succession sounded. Paul thrust himself flat on the ice. He hadn’t heard any hits nearby. He hated this waiting, this not knowing.

With an oath, he threw himself at the ridge, putting his rifle on it. Using the scope, he scanned the base.

The shots—he saw a man kneeling by two Chinese soldiers. They were near the derrick, the one the two-man team had been strapping demolitions to. The man had a big gun in his hand. This man lacked the fur hat without earflaps. He had a woolen hat, the kind everyone at the oil rig used. With a shock, Paul recognized Red Cloud. The Algonquin had killed the two demo-men.

Using his sight, Paul scanned the camp. He saw two more roly-poly soldiers crawling toward Red Cloud. Taking quick aim, Paul fired, missed, then fired the rest of the magazine, killing one while the other leapt up and ran like mad out of sight.

As Paul shoved in another magazine, he heard three shots. They were the same kind of shots he’d heard before. Several seconds later, Red Cloud appeared from behind a hut. The Algonquin aimed his gun at the sky and fired twice. Then he cupped his hands, shouting.

Paul barely heard the words: “Hurry in, Kavanagh! We have to leave before the others come back.”