Invasion: Alaska

-8- Decisions

Anna Chen sat alone in a large room in the White House basement. The room contained a massive table and big, cushioned chairs. There were old-style books on a shelf, and a wall computer-scroll on mute. On the scroll, it showed Susan Salisbury’s earnest features as she explained something to the audience.

Was it possible to stop the coming war? Anna couldn’t see how. It still shocked her to see the two wrecked carriers. The Chairman was deadly serious, and war with the most populous and richest country on Earth was about to begin.

A pair of double doors opened abruptly. Three men strode in. The first was Colin Green. The second was the President of the United States, a tallish, good-looking man with the sides of his hair graying. He seemed like a movie actor to Anna. The third was a large, overweight man with wisps of messy hair scattered over his otherwise bald head. He was the Secretary of State and wore a rumpled suit.

The Secretary of State halted, and he glanced at Green. “Is this another sexual harassment case among your staff?”

“No, nothing of the kind,” said Green. “Please forgive him the rude joke,” he told Anna.

She nodded guardedly.

Colin Green introduced Anna, telling the others she had a PhD in Chinese Studies and that she’d written Socialist-Nationalist China.

“An informative book,” the Secretary of State said. He slid out a chair and sat down heavily.

“Mr. President,” Green said, holding out a chair for him.

The President waved Green aside, sitting down without help. He sat across the table from Anna, inspecting her.

“Colin tells me you knew something about the attack before it happened,” the President said.

Anna glanced at Green before she said, “Yes, sir.”

“She should have told someone in authority,” the Secretary of State said.

“A good idea,” Green said quickly. “At least she forwarded a memo. I’m sure she thought that was good enough. It would have been under normal circumstances. Ms. Chen,” Green said, turning toward Anna. “You have my full permission to come and see me at any time if you have further information.”

“Thank you, sir,” Anna said.

“Enough, Colin,” the President said. “Ms. Chen, you believe the Chinese attacked our carriers?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. And she outlined what she had told Colin Green the day before.

“In your opinion, why would they make such an underhanded attack against our carriers?” the President asked.

“I believe the Chinese are using their naval exercise as a screen for a sudden land attack,” Anna replied. “They’ve loaded up an unusual number of naval brigades, and the Chinese Army rolled a regiment of T-66 multi-turreted tanks onto fast cargo ships. Maybe as telling, the ice-mobile formations in Ambarchik Base in East Siberia have been receiving mass air-shipments of supplies and air-mobile companies.”

“You’re better informed than the Pentagon,” the President said, bemused.

“Sir, I believe the Chinese objective is Alaska and particularly the oilfields.”

“Tell me why?”

“I’m not completely certain as to why,” Anna said. “But I believe the key is the oilfields in Prudhoe Bay and ANWAR, together with the oil rigs in the Arctic Ocean. They represent a large supply of crude. Maybe the Chinese are trying to corner the oil market. Their interior rice riots likely frightened the Party. Maybe with the oil market cornered, they can dictate world food prices.”

The President nodded. “I wish I would have learned of this sooner. Now with two carriers destroyed…I don’t see how we can stop this diplomatically.”

Anna leaned forward. She’d been thinking about this for some time. “Sir, I have a suggestion. The Politburo’s Ruling Committee is seldom unanimous. There are strong personalities on the committee vying for power as the Chairman’s grip weakens. Deng Fong, Jian Hong, Admiral—” She shook her head. “The names don’t matter now. My point is that maybe you can shake their resolve.”

“I’m not sure I follow you,” the President said.

“I can’t believe Deng Fong is in favor of war. Maybe you can scare the others with American resolve. Show the Chairman this was a mistake.”

“The Joint Chiefs are showing me how to do that, Ms. Chen. They talk about an ASBM assault on the Chinese Fleet.”

“You just spoke about fixing this diplomatically, sir. I realize blood has been spilled, and it is hard to reset the clock. But this is Greater China we’re talking about.”

“What is your point?”

Anna glanced at the Secretary of State. He looked stern, angry. Colin Green seemed worried. Anger smoldered in the President’s eyes.

“Sir,” Anna said, “I suggest you call the Chairman. He will want to speak with you.”

“Why?” asked Clark.

Anna said this carefully as the President and his advisors were proud, powerful men. “The Chairman believes himself to be very persuasive. In both the Siberian War and against Taiwan, he lied to those he was attacking. He lied in order to get them to drop their guard. Both Siberia and Taiwan were too weak to resist Chinese arms for long. Therefore, the leaders of both countries were eager for any possible solution short of war. Those leaders took a risk and believed the Chairman’s promises. They were psychologically primed, so they grasped at straws. The Chairman, however, believes he possesses a golden tongue, that it was his speaking gift that bewildered the Siberian and Taiwanese leaders into making foolish decisions. Several analysts now see this as his signature tactic. In the Tokyo Interview, the Chairman said that a few words leading others in the wrong direction saved thousands of Chinese lives. He asked which was worse, to speak falsely in a needed time or to let others spill his people’s precious blood.”

“You believe the Chairman will lie to me?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“He will attempt to trick me, as you say.”

Anna nodded.

“Why should I speak with him then?” the President asked.

“To give him a lie,” Anna said, “to attempt to sow discord in the Ruling Committee.”

“Go on…” said the President.

“During the call you should tell him you’ve strengthened Alaska with secret reinforcements. Tell the Chairman that you know he’s attacking, that you’ve known of his buildup all along and have taken steps accordingly.”

“That will scare him?”

“Scare is probably the wrong word,” Anna said. “Instead, it might strengthen the will of those who counsel the Chairman against a war with America.”

The President stared at his hands.

“It’s worth consideration,” the Secretary of State said. “Fight fire with fire.” He turned to Anna. “You have a subtle mind, Ms. Chen.”

Anna nodded demurely.

The President stood up. Everyone else rose with him. “I appreciate your candor, Ms. Chen.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“Keep her near,” Clark told Green. “We may need more insight into the Chairman’s thinking.” Without another word, Clark, the Secretary of State and Colin Green took their leave.

Paul Kavanagh dropped his M14 on the ice beside a dead Asian, the one with a bullet hole in his back. It had been more than a few years since Quebec. Paul had forgotten some of his combat habits. One habit came back right away, however: looting the dead.

At first, in Quebec, it had been hard touching a dead body, especially if you’d made the corpse yourself. There was something mysterious about a dead man. You certainly didn’t want to touch it. To go through a corpse’s pockets—some Marines hadn’t been able to do it, ever.

Paul swallowed as he nerved himself. You don’t have time to screw around. You need better weapons. It’s a simple as that.

He picked up the corpse’s dropped assault rifle, the one with a fancy scope. There were some Chinese symbols on the sides. With an oath, Paul went through the corpse’s pockets, doing it fast. It made him feel soiled, and there was the fear the corpse would sit up suddenly and grab his wrist. It was a deeply superstitious feeling, one difficult to shake despite its impossibility. Lastly, he fumbled with the belt, unbuckling it from the corpse. Hurriedly, Paul buckled the belt around his waist. It held extra curved magazines, a bayonet, two grenades, a canteen and a small, unknown device. He raised the butt of the assault rifle to his shoulder and peered through the activated scope. He’d guessed right—infrared. The barracks and sheds were blue-colored.

“Hurry,” Red Cloud said, who looted his own corpse several feet away. “We don’t have much time.”

Ignoring the Algonquin, Paul scanned the rest of the barracks, derricks and then out on the ice, using the infrared scope. There wasn’t anyone anywhere. It was eerie. Where had the enemy gone? How had these soldiers even gotten here in the first place? No one had teleportation devices that Paul knew of.

And why is Red Cloud alive while everyone else is dead?

Paul brought the assault rifle to waist level as Red Cloud neared. He sure wasn’t going to trust the Algonquin. The Indian still held the big revolver in his hand, although he shouldered an assault rifle. Paul aimed his own assault rifle at Red Cloud’s midsection.

The Algonquin halted, frowning, but smart enough to keep his gun lowered. He raised his eyes to gaze into Paul’s. Red Cloud’s face was emotionless. “Are you a traitor?”

“Yeah, right,” Paul said. “You are.”

“Because I’m a dirty Indian?”

“Cause you’re alive and everyone else is dead,” Paul said with heat.

“What about you?”

“Yeah, what about me?”

“Your logic proves that you must also be a traitor.”

Paul thought about that. “So what happened, then?”

Turning, gazing at the derricks, Red Cloud said, “They attacked from the north. They swept in silently just as the U.S. Marines did in Black Rock country, killing everything. I looked out my window and saw what was happening. I hid, waiting for my chance, just as when Marines struck our camp during the war. When most of the shooters left—leaving the others to rig their explosives—I came out to have my revenge. I think several of those radioed back before we killed them. The others will return. We must leave before that.”

“Yeah, Geronimo, leave to where?”

“I will not go back to Canada,” Red Cloud said. “They have a warrant there for my arrest and execution. Greenland is too far and in Siberia they speak Russian or Chinese.”

“So we hike to the mainland?” asked Paul. “To Dead Horse?”

Nodding, Red Cloud said, “We must hurry before the Chinese return.”

“How do you know they’re Chinese?”

“Look at them,” Red Cloud said, pointing at the dead. “Do you notice the tiger-head patch? These are White Tiger Commandos, China’s fiercest warriors.”

“So how did these Commandos get all the way out here? By walking across the ice?”

“The ‘how’ is unimportant,” Red Cloud said. “They are here. So we must leave—now.”

Paul stared at the bleak snowscape, at the pressure ridges and whispering particles of snow blowing across the ice. “Alaska has to be four hundred miles away,” he said. “We can’t walk that far.”

“A man does what he must,” Red Cloud said. “To live, I will try walking the distance. Better, however, to see if any of the snowcats are operable.”

Paul studied the base. White Tiger Commandos had attacked, huh? He wondered what the point of it was. Had the Chinese attacked the Californian oil rig, too? Paul’s eyes widened. Why would the Chinese be destroying American oil wells? That was an act of war. War with China—this could be the start of World War Three.

“Do not think you can remain here and summon help through the radio,” Red Cloud said. “The White Tigers have used demolitions. They mean to destroy the base. To wait here is to wait for death.”

“Come on,” Paul said, heading for the nearest building. He believed the sneaky Algonquin now. He didn’t like Red Cloud any more than before, but if a man were going to try to cross four hundred miles of polar ice, he’d probably want someone like Red Cloud with him. The Algonquin was more a native of this land than he was, that’s for sure.

“Hurry,” Paul said. “We have to see if anyone else is alive.”

The first barrack held a nasty surprise. Paul opened the door. In the murk, he saw a wire move and heard a click inside.

“Down!” he shouted, twisting and dragging Red Cloud with him.

As Paul hit the ice, the barrack’s roof blew off as flames roared into the Arctic night. One side of the barrack blasted apart, metal screeching. Hot pieces of shrapnel blew through the air.

From where Paul lay, he blinked groggily. The shockwave had rolled him backward ten feet. The Commandos rigged a booby trap. He wondered for whom.

“You okay?” he asked.

Red Cloud grunted as he sat up, his fingers probing his torso and legs.

Paul sat up beside him. “We got lucky.”

“We must hurry now, or we are dead forever.”

Dragging themselves upright, they staggered for the main garage. Paul stared north into the Arctic darkness. The stars were bright on the white ice, giving more illumination than seemed possible.

As they reached the garage, Paul said, “I’ll search for booby traps. You keep watch for more Commandos.”

“I will search, too.”

“Listen, Geronimo, I was in the Marines. We set our share of booby traps, so I know what to look for. You’re more used to this ice world and can probably spot something that’s out of place faster than I can. So let’s each stick to our areas of expertise, okay?”

Red Cloud grunted, and he gave a short nod. Slipping the assault rifle from his shoulder, he turned on the infrared scope and walked north.

Paul took out his flashlight. He was breathing hard as he opened the garage door. Washing his beam of light into the interior, he groaned as he spied the snowcats. Most of the tracked vehicles’ hoods were up. That didn’t bode well. He moved carefully around the strewn junk on the floor. Soon, he discovered that all the engines’ hoses and plugs had been cut. These White Tigers were bastards.

There had to be extras hoses and plugs somewhere. Or maybe he could jury-rig something. Paul worked fast as he went from machine to machine. He found a needed hose in the back of one, and there were extra plugs in the storage room. Taking a toolkit from a cat, he began working on the least damaged engine.

Maybe five minutes later, he heard a groan. Pulling his head from out under the hood, Paul cursed softly. He grabbed the rifle and heard the groan a second time. It came from the storage area.

Walking in the murk, with dim light from a derrick shining through a small window, Paul approached a closet. Was a White Tiger Commando waiting in there for him? Should he fire a few rounds through the closed door just to make sure?

Not wanting to call out and alert whoever was hiding, Paul stood indecisive for a moment. Finally, he put his hand on the latch and threw open the door.

Something shiny rose in back. There was a click like a cocking hammer. Paul whirled away, slamming his back against the wall as a boom went off. Despite his ringing ears and tripping heart, Paul heard muttered words. They were spoken in English, and he knew that voice.

“Murphy! It’s me—Paul Kavanagh! Quit shooting!”

He heard another muffled curse and something heavily metallic clattered on the cement floor. A second later, a body thumped onto the cement.

Paul clicked on his flashlight and peered in. Murphy lay face down on the floor, with blood oozing from his parka.

“Kavanagh!” shouted Red Cloud from outside.

“It’s Murphy!” shouted Paul. “He must have thought I was Chinese. Now he’s out. Come in here. I need your help.”

“The Chinese are coming,” Red Cloud said, as he entered the garage.

“What?” asked Paul. Did these guys have long-distance helicopters?

“There’s a platoon of them,” Red Cloud said. “We don’t have much time.”

“Are you sure?”

“I saw their submarines surface.”

Submarines. Right. That makes sense.

“I saw two submarines,” Red Cloud said. “First lasers stabbed out of the ice. Then the submarines broke through. After the subs settled, soldiers boiled out of the towers, climbing down. We have ten minutes before they arrive.”

Now we know how they got here. “We have to load up with supplies,” Paul said.

“We must leave now or we die.”

“Drag Murphy into the cat over there,” Paul said. “I fixed it. Then drive to the mess. Make sure you keep the cat’s lights off.”

Without waiting for an answer, Paul raced for the garage exit. The Algonquin had better not leave without him. “I’m going to scrounge us a bag of grub!” he shouted. “Okay?”

For an answer, Red Cloud disappeared into the closet where Murphy lay.

Panting, and with sweat dripping from his face, Paul heaved three canvas bags into the back of the snowcat. Then he banged the back shut and raced around to the side, piling in on the passenger side. Red Cloud started the vehicle moving as Paul slammed his door shut.

The snowcat’s tank-like treads lurched and the compact vehicle clanked south, leaving the gravel skirt of the oil rig. They left behind the dead and any of those who might be wounded and unconscious. That grated on Paul. Marines didn’t leave their own behind. The Corps had drilled the idea into him.

Murphy groaned from where he lay in back. Blood still seeped from his gunshot wound.

Rolling down his window, thrusting half his torso outside, Paul aimed the assault rifle north. He used the scope regularly, without infrared. Past the derricks and far out on the ice he saw two squat metal towers. They were the “sails” of two Chinese submarines. The submarines had punched through the ice, which should have taken some doing. Paul had read somewhere that a sub couldn’t break through ice more than three-and-a-half feet thick. He’d been doing the radar-testing of the ice-thickness on the perimeter earlier. The ice here was much thicker than three-and-a-half feet. It must have been the reason why the Chinese had used lasers first, either melting the ice or breaking it apart. Marching from the two submarines were roly-poly White Tiger Commandos, more than twenty and each using snowshoes. They were almost to the northern edge of the oil rig’s gravel skirt.

He spied pinpoints of lights from the rifles. The White Tigers had spotted them and they were firing.

“They know we’re escaping,” Paul said. “They see us.”

Red Cloud spoke in Algonquin. Paul hoped it was an Indian curse, one with power.

Paul glanced back again. “Crap!” he said.

“What is it?”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Speak to me, Kavanagh.”

Paul saw a bright dot rise from one of the submarine’s sails. There was another fiery dot from the other submarine. Paul brought up the assault rifle. He caught the object in his scope. It was an armored White Tiger in a bulky battle-jetpack. Paul had read articles about them. After decades of effort, the Japanese had finally invented a rugged, fuel-efficient one. Paul had a swift view of the Commando using an armrest joystick-control and a bulky helmet with gizmos attached. The Commando moved swiftly through the air toward them. It had to be freezing up there.

“They’re sending two jetpack flyers after us!” Paul shouted.

He lowered the assault rifle. Something red winked from the first flyer. On a suspicion, Paul glanced at the side of their cat. There was a bright red dot on it.

“He’s using a laser!” Paul shouted. “He’s going to guide a missile into us.”

Red Cloud slammed on the brakes.

Paul jammed his back against the brace of the open window. “What are you doing?” he shouted as the snowcat came to a halt.

“There’s a Blowdart launcher in the back!” Red Cloud shouted.

Paul slid inside, thrust his assault rifle against the door and lunged over the back of his seat. He saw the single-shot Blowdart tube. It was like an old LAWS rocket. He grabbed the launcher, opened his door, and jumped outside. The engine roared as the left tread spun, rotating the cat in place. Then both treads tore up ice and snow as the cat clacked away at a right angle from its former position.

With one knee on the ice, Paul activated the Blowdart.

Then he saw an orange bloom from one of the submarine’s towers. That had to be someone firing an ATGM, an Anti-Tank Guided Missile. The flames behind the missile showed its increasing speed, and that it was coming straight at the snowcat.

Despite his shaking arms, Paul lifted the Blowdart tube and peered through the scope. He spied one of the flyers hanging up there, no doubt “painting” the cat with his guidance laser. Paul squeezed the trigger. The launching-tube shivered. It was like a recoilless rifle. Flames flickered out of the back of the tube as the missiles sped upward at the flyers.

It must have panicked them or caused the flyers to jink like crazy. Either way, it meant that neither kept their laser targeted on the snowcat. The Blowdart must have badly surprised the flyers.

Then Paul remembered the missile coming for them. He looked up and watched slack-jawed as the submarine-launched missile roared overhead. It was loud, a flash of metal, and it was so close he felt a momentary wash of heat. Several hundred yards behind him, the missile hit the ice and exploded.

Dropping the empty tube, Paul picked his assault rifle off the ice. He scanned the sky. There was only one flyer now.

Bringing up the assault rifle, Paul flicked on the infrared. The scope had a range-calculator. The flyer was over a thousand yards away. That was much too far to think he could hit the man. Still, he began firing three-bullet bursts. In seconds, Paul tore out the magazine and shoved in another.

More orange blooms now appeared on the submarine sails.

With his teeth clenched, Paul kept firing. Whether it was his bullets or the Arctic cold, he didn’t know. Maybe the pilot wasn’t familiar enough with the jetpack under combat conditions, or maybe having someone firing at him panicked the man. All Paul knew was that the flyer plummeted toward the ice.

The next two submarine-launched missiles veered to the right, exploding in the darkness.

By then, Paul was sprinting to the snowcat. Would the Algonquin leave him behind? Did Red Cloud hate him that much?

The cat lurched to a halt even as Paul wondered. The machine began backing up. Paul glanced at the sky. No more jetpack flyers appeared. Just as good, no more missiles launched from the towers. Maybe whoever fired at them had to order up more missiles from within the submarine.

Exhausted, Paul climbed into the passenger seat. “I nailed two!” he shouted, slamming his door shut.

Red Cloud was hunched over the wheel. His eyes were hard on the ice before them. “Ready?” he asked.

Paul yanked on his seatbelt. “Let’s get out of here while we can.” He laughed as he patted the assault rifle between his knees. “They’ll probably chase us. But at least we’ll make it hard on them before we die.”

Red Cloud gave him a single glance. Then he returned to staring outside as the treads began to clank.

The atmosphere was tense as a bodyguard wheeled the Chairman into the conference chamber. On one side of a large oaken table sat Jian Hong, Xiao of the Police, and a red-eyed Admiral Qiang. On the other side of the table were Deng Fong and the Army Chief of Staff.

Around the large room, the curtains were drawn against the gloomy weather outside. It had rained for three days and the weatherman predicted hail tonight.

Jian kept his hands on the table near his glass of mineral water. He yearned to fidget, to release some of the anxiety that seethed in him. There had been another rice riot yesterday. This time the people hadn’t simply looted the rice factories and stormed into the stores. Rather, leaders had spontaneously arisen and several mobs had attempted to burn down police stations. News of it had leaked onto the blogosphere, with several cell-phone videos racing around the Internet.

Jian had been urging the Chairman to order a full Internet blackout until the emergency was over.

During the meeting, Deng had attacked him cleverly, repeatedly bringing up the ongoing food disaster. Deng had the gall to stare at him as he talked about full-blown famine.

Fortunately, the Chairman had already moved Jian out of the Agricultural Ministry and had made him a Minister without Portfolio, becoming the de facto coordinator of the Alaska Invasion. Therefore, he kept telling Deng to bring these food-supply matters to the new Minister of Agriculture.

The Chairman appeared both worse and better than the day he’d made the decision to invade Alaska. His skin had an unhealthy, shiny quality. And the pain creasing his features from his ramrod posture almost made Jian feel sorry for the old man. The Chairman’s eyes, however, radiated power to a greater degree than before.

As the Chairman entered, Deng turned to his computer, eagerly reading something.

Jian yearned to know what it was. The man had an agile mind and attacked from many directions.

I will only be happy when the police drag Deng screaming from this room. A gun pressed against the back of his head, and boom—Deng Fong’s corpse will flop about like a catfish. On that day, I will sigh with relief.

“Sir,” Deng said, not even having the decency to allow the Chairman to make himself comfortable again. The bodyguard knelt and rearranged the plaid blanket around the Chairman’s useless legs.

“You have news?” the Chairman asked. The old man no longer whispered, but spoke crisply.

“Sir,” Deng said, “the Secretary of the U.N. has phoned. She urges you to sit down with the Americans and talk out any differences we might have.”

“The woman is presumptuous,” Jian said. It would ruin everything if there were peace now. He needed war—a highly successful war—if he were to oust the Chairman and become the new ruler of China. During these past days, he had seen a way to gaining total power. But for that to happen, he needed a long war.

“I am baffled,” Deng said. “In what way is the U.N. Secretary’s common sense presumptuous?”

“There are no open hostilities between our nations for her to fix,” Jian said. “She is like a dog that sticks its nose up a woman’s dress, sniffing where it isn’t wanted. I am sorry to say, but to me that is presumptuous.”

“You surprise me,” Deng said. “Do we not attack America?”

“There is no ‘open’ conflict between our nations yet,” Jian said. “That is what I’m saying.”

“Yet the U.N. Secretary has drawn the correct conclusion,” Deng said, “as she no doubt witnessed the destruction of the American carriers.”

“We preemptively struck the worst of the grain-hoarding nations,” Jian said. “That is true. But as yet there is no open conflict.”

“The Secretary desires world peace,” Deng said, “particularly peace between the two largest nuclear powers. She must hate the glacial period as much as we, since China, like much of the world, can no longer feed its starving population. Imagine a world sunk in a full-blown ice age as a nuclear winter howls across the continents.”

“The Americans know we have an impenetrable ICBM defense,” Jian said. “For that reason there will be no nuclear winter—no true ice age—because the Americans would never dare to launch their missiles.”

“This is excellent news,” Deng said. “Yes, your prophetic gift reassures me entirely. Please, former Agricultural Minister, could you focus your far-seeing powers to help find the Chinese people enough food to eat?”

Jian seethed inwardly. The clever intriguer was a master at these conversations. “We will have enough food,” he said, “once we force the Americans to open their storehouses to us.”

“Enough of this,” the Chairman said. “We have important matters to discuss.”

“I am at your command, sir,” Jian said.

“We all are,” Deng said.

Jian forced his mouth shut in order to forestall more words. A crease of irritation had deepened the lines on the Chairman’s forehead. Instead of words, Jian now hunched toward the Chairman. He sat nearest the leader, at least on his side of the table. Jian folded his hands, trying to radiate obedience to the Chairman’s will.

Deng, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, was too proud to play that game. He sat in his high-backed chair like a foreign potentate. He sipped mineral water and picked up a spiced wafer, popping it onto his tongue.

“I am about to begin a conference call with the President of the United States,” the Chairman informed them.

“Do you know the reason for his call?” Deng asked.

Jian scowled at Deng, trying to project to the others the unforgivable nature of the slight of speaking to the Chairman before being spoken to.

“As stated earlier,” the Chairman said, “we destroyed two American carriers. The nature of the call would therefore seem obvious. The President will seek reassurances that we didn’t do it.”

“I have scanned their news agencies,” Deng said. “I believe they know we did it.”

“I’m not sure I can agree you,” Jian said, unable to contain himself. “Their pundits argue between themselves, offering several different reasons of why the attack occurred. The foremost theory is that Taiwanese extremists wish to foster hatred and discord between our two great nations.”

“Do you truly think the President of the United States believes such twaddle?” asked Deng.

“Your words surprise me,” Jian said. “Our Chairman used exactly such sleight-of-mind tricks to confuse the Russians during our invasion of Siberia. Our Great Leader also backed down the Americans so their carriers fled to Hawaii as our naval infantry and paratroopers stormed onto Taiwan. Why not use similar verbal tactics today?”

“You may be right,” Deng said. “The only flaw I can see in your reasoning is that the facts are too obvious to deny.”

“If anyone else spoke such words,” Jian said, “I would think they doubted the Chairman’s skills at these maneuvers. If anyone else suggested the Chairman couldn’t bewilder the American President with his web of words, I would say that person lacked faith in our Great Leader. But I know you, Deng Fong, so I would never suggest you lack faith.”

“Sir,” Deng said. “I am not disparaging your powers of persuasion.”

“I hope not,” the Chairman said with a frown.

Deng paused as wariness crept into his eyes. He glanced at Jian and then back at the Chairman.

Jian feared that Deng was finally beginning to understand an uncomfortable truth. While the Chairman’s will, acuity and ability to keep functioning over time had increased, Jian believed the old man was entering a delusional state of his own devising. Like many successful conquerors, the Chairman seemed to be choosing to believe that his will could overcome any obstacle. The old man’s ability to confuse foreigners about the reality of the situation had become legendary. Yet it did seem doubtful anyone could now confuse the Americans. That likely wouldn’t hinder the Chairman from trying, however. The list of successful conquerors following their star into the abyss was long. Jian thought of Wang Mang and his one-man dynasty, shaken by the Red Eyebrow Rebellion and finally slain by a common soldier. And he thought, too, of Hung Hsiu-ch’uan and his incredible Taiping Rebellion. At one time, he’d controlled half of China, before the world had collapsed on him.

“What is your plan, sir?” Deng asked.

“The same as before,” the Chairman said. “We will rip Alaska from the American grasp, using its oil to leverage mass food shipments from them.”

“Sir,” Deng said, “may I interject a possible…uh…flaw with our thinking?”

“This is the Chairman’s plan,” Jian said, feigning disbelief. “Are you suggesting that the Chairman’s thinking is flawed?”

Deng smiled as he bowed his head in Jian’s direction. “The Chairman is wise and sees through anyone who attempts to twist another’s words. A minister’s bowing and scraping like a servant will not help that one as he fails in his assigned tasks. The Chairman easily spots charlatans many kilometers distant.”

The Chairman glanced at Jian.

Jian forced a hearty tone into his words as he slowly clapped, “I applaud your speech. You are absolutely correct in the Chairman’s abilities. He also unmasks the preening arrogance of any who sits at his table like a foreign potentate. He can tell when one puffs himself up as another supposed ‘co-ruler’ of China.”

“Enough,” the Chairman said.

Jian and Deng, who had been studying each other, turned toward the Chairman.

“The President of the United States is on the line,” the Chairman said. “You, the members of the Ruling Committee of the Politburo, will listen to our conversation. I will call on each of you afterward to decipher his trickery. For now, however, you will remain silent.”

As Jian nodded and Deng raised an eyebrow, the Chairman’s wheelchair whirled with electric noise. He turned around, facing a moving curtain. It revealed a wall with a rolled out computer-scroll, a camera placed above it, aimed at the Chairman. The scroll flickered into life. President Clark of the United States sat at his desk in the Oval Office, a huge American flag as backdrop.

“Mr. Chairman,” President Clark said. “I welcome this opportunity for you and I to personally work out what potentially could prove disastrous for both our countries.”

“That warms my heart to hear you speak like this,” the Chairman said. “Such talks between men as you and I are particles of wisdom which the Cosmic All has seen fit to sprinkle upon us.”

President Clark blinked several times. He was a tall man, as most Presidents of the United States seemed to be. He had dark hair, graying on the sides, and was handsome in the rugged American way as portrayed in the movies.

“Sir,” said the President, “my country has faced several disasters lately. I’m sure you’ve heard of the American oil rig off the coast of California that mysteriously exploded. It washed wildlife-killing crude onto the state’s beaches. My experts tell me CHKR-57 explosives caused the rig’s destruction.”

“How truly unfortunate,” the Chairman said. “You have our country’s condolences.”

President Clark frowned. “CHKR-57 is the new Chinese high-explosive so recently discovered in your country’s laboratories.”

“I am aware of this.”

Clark glanced to his left, nodding slightly. Perhaps someone off-screen spoke to him. The President’s hands, which lay on his desk, held a pen. As he turned back to the screen, those hands tightened around the pen and the rugged face took on a pinched look.

Jian had read the psychological profile on Clark. The President was gifted at American politics, a barracuda against his political opponents. He also tended toward what the Americans called isolationism. He’d kept the American military from entering Mexico during its civil war. Many had called him cowardly for that. Others praised his foresight. His greatest achievement had been keeping civil war from erupting in his own country. The Aztlan Movement had been strong in America, and for several years, it looked as if many southwestern states would attempt secession to join a Greater Mexico. Through diplomacy, police force and Federal-level infiltration into the ranks of the Aztlan rebels, Clark had kept the lid on long enough for the hotter-headed to cool down. The President disliked direct confrontation, believing as many leaders did that time solved most problems. New problems took the place of old ones, refocusing the easily distracted populace.

“Mr. Chairman,” Clark now said, “I fear I must inform you that my divers found a White Tiger Commando in the oil rig’s debris.”

“This was never in the news,” the Chairman said.

“Nevertheless, the Commando was among the wreckage. The conclusion seems obvious.”

“I hope, Mr. President, you do not think I would ever order such an underhanded attack against your oil industry. China would never need to stoop to such a thing.”

Clark looked visibly agitated, almost frightened.

For all his physical attributes, Jian thought, the President is a weak man.

“Mr. Chairman,” Clark said, “I assure you that I don’t think you would ever order such an attack. However, there may have been some in your administration with other ideas who worked behind your back.”

Jian held himself very still. Had Deng sent the Americans secret cables concerning Admiral Qiang and him? If so, this was treachery at the highest levels. Clark stabbed at the truth. He couldn’t have done so on his own. The Chairman could now use this moment to defuse everything, if he became so inclined. There had to be a way to derail the conversation.

“Surely, Mr. President,” the Chairman said, “you understand that I hold the reins of power. My ministers would never dare work ‘behind my back.’ May I suggest to you what I think occurred?”

“By all means, Mr. Chairman.”

“The Taiwanese extremists are savages. Too many escaped into the wider world as our lost island returned to the fold of the mainland. These savages are clever little men, who scheme night and day to embroil our country in debilitating wars and entanglements. For decades, these plotters attempted to drag America into a face-to-face confrontation between our two mighty countries. Fortunately, we were both wise enough to avoid their schemes. Now, I fear, they have gone too far. With stolen White Tiger uniforms and equipment, these devils blew up your platform. Mr. President, I have no doubt you found such a corpse, and clothed as you say. Like me, you are an honest man. I would never think to doubt your word.”

Clark’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip around the pen. “If it was simply a matter of one floating corpse, Mr. Chairman, I would drop my, ah, inquiry.”

Smiling from his wheelchair, the Chairman asked, “I do hope you are not making inquiries of me, Mr. President? I sit in a wheelchair, not a witness stand.”

“Perhaps I chose the wrong word.”

“You were a fearsome trail lawyer in your younger days. Old habits surely die hard. I can understand. But—”

“Please, Mr. Chairman, I misspoke a moment ago. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“No, no, Mr. President. There is no need to ask of this forgiveness. I simply asked for a clarification. You have given it to me. Thank you.”

Clark nodded, and he seemed relieved.

He is truly a simple, weak man, Jian thought. We should have invaded their country long ago.

“As I was saying—or as I tried to say—Mr. Chairman, there is another incident that adds to my…disquiet concerning the corpse found at the oil rig.”

“Oh?”

“Surely, you’ve watched it on the news. Two carriers in San Francisco Harbor were attacked.”

“That is dreadful, Mr. President. I heard the supercarriers were not only attacked, but destroyed.”

“Yes. Er, no,” said Clark. “They were hit. No one denies that. One was hit twice. Fortunately, American damage control teams prevented either from sinking. As surprising as it may seem, both carriers will soon return to sea in active duty.”

The Chairman nodded slowly.

“He lies, sir,” Jian hissed. “Those carriers will never fight again.”

“Mr. Chairman,” Clark asked. “Did you say something?”

“I merely cleared my throat.” The Chairman nodded as if thinking. Then he smiled again.

Wise, Jian thought. The Americans are a nation of smiling fools. They will believe anyone who can smile well. He watched on a side computer-scroll the Chairman’s image as portrayed to the American.

“This is wonderful news about your carriers,” the Chairman was saying. “I congratulate your Navy personnel on fast work. Few would believe that any carrier could survive such devastating hits.”

“Our Navy damage control teams are the best in the world,” said Clark, “as I’m sure you know.”

“The American Navy is respected throughout the world, yes.”

“It is still more than capable of protecting its shores from any invasion.” Clark smiled in a seemingly false manner. “Our Navy can still hunt down those who harm the nation, in order to inflict punishing damage in retaliation.”

“That is excellent news, excellent,” the Chairman said. “Still, in hunting down these extremist dogs, I would think swift, hunter-killer CIA teams would serve you better than any carriers.”

“For hunting extremists, I suppose that’s true. Unfortunately, sir, I fear I must inform you that Chinese corpses were found in the trawler from which the San Francisco missile attack took place. Please let me finish, sir.”

The Chairman had been about to speak.

“Dragon Claw missiles were used against our carriers,” Clark said. “As you know, these are Chinese missiles.”

“I told you the Taiwanese extremists were ruthless,” the Chairman said. “Ever since they escaped our clutches, they have nefariously been selling small-arms weapons to drug lords and various separatists in order to acquire the funds for truly powerful weapons.”

“Dragon Claws are the latest and most deadly missiles in the Chinese arsenal,” Clark said. “I don’t see how any extremist could acquire them.”

The Chairman frowned. “Mr. President… are you suggesting that someone other than Taiwanese terrorists attacked your carriers?”

President Clark set down the pen and peered intently out of the screen. “Not only were Chinese weapons used to destroy—to hit our carriers—but you are at this time carrying out a giant naval exercise in the North Pacific, well west of the Kamchatka Peninsula. These naval maneuvers are taking place much too near Alaskan waters. Mr. Chairman, your naval exercise troubles many of my highest military people.”

“This exercise was planned months in advance.”

“Mr. Chairman, I would like to speak frankly with you if I may.”

“Please do.”

“First, let me say that is an honor to speak with a man such as you. You have brought together all the ‘lost’ provinces of China’s previous heydays. You have forged your country into a powerhouse. If one includes the satellite states of Central and East Siberia, you have welded together the largest country on Earth. In this day and age, that is an amazing feat. I speak to you therefore with utmost respect.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I also respect you.”

“It pleases me to hear so. Sir, your giant naval exercise, combined with the boarding of T-66 multi-turreted Army tanks into several cargo ships, troubles my senior officers. Of course, I told them not to worry. They then told me that your—” Clark glanced at a paper before continuing “—your ice-mobile formations in East Siberia, in Ambarchik Base, have received massive shipments of winterized aircraft and new air-mobile formations. My military men tell me these units are capable of crossing the polar ice.”

The Chairman nodded as he tugged at his lower lip. “I suspect this is faulty information you’re receiving.”

“You deny—you’re telling me this build-up at Ambarchik Base is not happening?” asked Clark.

“I will have to ask my Minister of the Army to find out the full details of what is going on,” the Chairman said. “If he is practicing a deceitful maneuver without my knowledge, he will face serious consequences. I assure you of this, Mr. President. It is far more likely that your satellites or human intelligence sources saw something quite inconsequential in nature.”

“Mr. Chairman,” said Clark, “if I could cut to the chase, I feel I must ask you this: What could possibly cause China to attack the United States?”

“I am unaware of anything,” said the Chairman, “other than protecting our national sovereignty.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I know that recently our talks in Sydney were stalled due to the unfortunate timing of the assault against our Californian oil rig. Perhaps we could reopen negotiations between our two countries concerning a trade of oil for grain.”

Jian quit breathing. The sniveling President could ruin everything.

“Mr. Chairman?” asked Clark.

He’s bargaining for time, thought Jian. Time to beef up his defenses.

“Your words intrigue me,” the Chairman said. “The trade would benefit both our nations. I wonder…. In the interest of trade and to show your good faith, could you immediately ship grain from San Diego?”

“I would need a clarification on what you mean by ‘immediately,’” said Clark.

“Today,” the Chairman said, as he stared at the President.

Clark glanced left to somewhere off-screen. The American President obviously listened to an advisor. Soon, a visibly shaken Clark turned back to the Chairman. “Yes, to show that we mean business, two ships will leave immediately for Hong Kong.”

“This is excellent news, Mr. President. I suspect you’ve heard something about a few rice ‘incidents’ in China’s interior.”

“Indeed I have,” said Clark. “It’s why I’m agreeing to this…ah, request.”

“News of the trade agreement will help us.”

Clark nodded.

“I will speak to my ministers about the renewing of trade talks,” the Chairman said. “I hope to finish this conversation with you tomorrow.”

“It would be my honor, sir. Ah, before we leave—” Clark hesitated, and he nodded, to himself, it seemed. “I would like to ask you for one small favor.”

“If it is in my power,” the Chairman said, “I will gladly give such a man of honor as you a favor.”

Clark looked earnestly out of the computer-scroll. He’d picked up the pen again and clutched it fiercely. “I would like to ask that you call off your naval exercise, immediately bringing the warships back to their Chinese homeports.”

“I see,” the Chairman said. “Hmm. I’ve watched the news about the dastardly attack against your carriers. Fully one third of your naval power destroyed in an instant. That would set any nation on edge.”

“Our Navy is still very powerful,” Clark said. “And it was only a sixth of our carrier force that was, ah, incapacitated.”

“Are you including in your count the small helicopter carriers and your hovercraft tenders?”

Clark breathed deeply through his nose. “About your naval exercise….”

“Mr. President,” the Chairman said, staring straight into Clark’s eyes. “I’m afraid that as much as I’d like to give you the small favor you requested, I cannot simply order the exercise’s cessation. My naval ministers informed me earlier that it would complicate matters for our personnel to receive such an order now. We are in the final phases of a highly sensitive maneuver and dearly wish to make sure there are no unwarranted accidents.”

“But Mr. Chairman—”

“Please, ask your own military people and I’m sure they will tell you I’m right about this.”

Clark licked his lips as his eyes tightened. He looked like a harried man. “Sir, two of our carriers were destroyed by Chinese nationals using Chinese weaponry. I need something to show my military chiefs, or they will recommend severe defense responses against your fleet.”

The Chairman became grave. “Mr. President, I am reluctant to speak these words to you. You are an honorable man of peace. This I know, and for this, I highly respect you. But I must—warn is too strong a word. It approaches the meaning of what I intend, however. Hmm, let me say it this way. I must ask that all American military vessels, planes and hardware stay well away from all Chinese naval ships for the duration of our exercise. During this time, many of our warships carry live weaponry. With all my heart, I wish to avoid any messy incidents that could pull you and me into unforgivable actions against each other.”

Clark had become pale. “You spoke of the need of grain to help abate your food riots—”

The Chairman laughed, interrupting Clark’s speech. “Riots present a false word-image of what really occurs.”

Clark seemed confused. “But on the Internet I’ve seen Chinese people storming a police station. That seems like a highly-charged situation, if I may be so bold to say so.”

The Chairman shook his head. “That is what I tried to explain earlier. I am old, so perhaps I failed to impart the correct…hmm, idea. The staged Internet riots are more Taiwanese extremist work. This time, instead of using weaponry, they use a clever fabrication to make it seem as if there is disorder in China. But the situation is quite otherwise, I assure you.”

Clark closed his eyes as he massaged his forehead. When he opened his eyes, he said, “Since you have seen fit to warn me about approaching your warships too closely, I would like to return the favor and inform you of recent developments. I have sent three heavy tank battalions to Alaska and four light infantry battalions. I have also sent new squadrons of fighters, bombers and laser-defenders to the North Slope oilfields. What is more—” Clark grew pale as his eyes reddened. “Mr. Chairman, in the interests of my nation’s security, I must inform you that if any of your naval vessels head toward the American coast, particularly toward Alaska, we will regard that as a prelude to an impending amphibious attack.”

“These are hard words, Mr. President.”

“They give me no joy,” Clark said.

“I will—”

“I’m not finished,” Clark said. “I’m sorry to sound so abrupt, but I feel I must tell you that not all of our ICBMs are nuclear-tipped. My military chiefs tell me that some of our ballistic missiles are ship-killers. You might be interested to know that the use of Anti-Ship Ballistic Missiles, ASBMs, against naval vessels was first a Chinese tactical solution to an enemy fleet with too many carriers near its coast. It was a good idea, one we will use if we must.”

“I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Are you threatening me with war?”

“Don’t you understand? I’m trying to stop a war that in the end no one will win.”

The Chairman nodded slowly. “Mr. President, you seem highly agitated. It pains me to say this, but your state of mind troubles me.”

“War is a terrible thing, Mr. Chairman. Yet I will not shrink from my responsibilities as the nation’s Commander-in-Chief.”

“Hmm, I can see that you dearly love your country. And your resolve… it might help my military people to know it so they can understand what they are risking with the continued exercise. Therefore, in the interest of peace between our two nations, I will attempt to order a cessation of our naval exercise. I must ask, however, that you keep your military people from hair-trigger responses. Let us send watch-teams to each other’s installations and sea platforms. That might help dampen the danger.”

Clark blinked several times before a grin stretched across his face. “I can agree to that.”

“Let us talk tomorrow,” the Chairman said.

The smile on the President’s face grew. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I knew I could talk to you. You are a man of honor and foresight.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I return the compliment. Until tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow,” Clark said, sitting back in his chair.

The red light on the camera shut off, and the screen showing President Clark blanked out.

Jian was aghast. Deng must have sent the American President secret communications. The trade talks would resume and it seemed that the war was over before it had started. This was a disaster.

The wheelchair turned around so a haggard Chairman could regard them. “Time has run out,” he said. “These non-nuclear ASBMs: how dangerous are they?”

“Very,” said Admiral Qiang. “It is the correct response on their part.”

“Do you have enough laser-defense planes to stop them?” asked the Chairman.

“It all depends on how many missiles they launch,” the admiral said. “But we will use more than just the laser-planes. Our destroyers and cruisers are armed with anti-missile systems. Still, it could be a risky—”

“Is there nothing we can do?” the Chairman asked.

“Yes,” said Qiang. “We can take out their targeting satellites. That will make it much more difficult for the ASBMs to pinpoint our ships during the terminal phase of their flight.”

“I hereby order this satellite destruction,” the Chairman said. “Now what is all this about them moving divisions of troops to Alaska?”

“It is pure fantasy, sir,” Jian said. “The U.S. Army hasn’t moved yet. They’re just beginning to mobilize, but they haven’t moved a single troop unit. It will be at least two or three weeks before the American Army can get there, probably longer. So it is not an issue.”

“Sir,” said a frowning Deng. “I thought you just agreed to trade grain for oil. You told President Clark—”

The Chairman was shaking his head as it rested against the wheelchair’s back. “It is much too late for peace. Our interior people want food now. They are storming police stations and setting them alight. No. We must take their minds off their hunger. If nothing else, a good shooting war will glue them to their TVs and computers. Then, once we take Alaska and once the Americans realize their helplessness against us—” The Chairman smiled tiredly. “Knowledge of a supine America and the coming food tribute will keep the people quiet long enough until our stores brim with American bread and potatoes.”

“What about the American ASBMs?” Deng asked.

The Chairman regarded the Army Minister.

The old marshal sat forward, his sculptured face showing eager readiness.

“You will take out every American recon satellite that can scan into the Pacific Ocean,” the Chairman said. “Then we must use refueling tankers to keep our laser-armed planes near the invasion fleet. If any of the enemy ASBMs launch, we must have the swift capacity to destroy them.”

“What about tomorrow, sir?” Deng asked. “What will you tell President Clark then?”

From his wheelchair and as he exposed his yellowed teeth, the Chairman said, “That, Energy Minister, will be my surprise. I believe my surprise might end the war before it begins, with Alaska as the newest province of our growing empire.”