Invasion: Alaska

by Vaughn Heppner

  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 came 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. Whatever, 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 two 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.

  BEIJING, P.R.C.

  The atmosphere was tense as a bodyguard wheeled the Chairman into the conference chamber. On one side of a large oaken table sat Jian Shihong, Xiaodan of the Police and a red-eyed Admiral Qingshan. 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. 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. Jian had become 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 gift 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 preempt 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 reinsurances 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 believe the President of the United States can believe such twaddle?” asked Deng.

  “Your words surprise me,” Jian said. “Our Chairman used exactly such sleight-of-mind imaginations 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 awareness 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 lever 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. Charlatans, the Chairman easily spots them 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, with a camera 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, with 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 oilrig 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 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, distracting 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 oilrig’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 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 Qingshan 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.”