“The key to controlling Alaska is Anchorage,” General Alan said. “At least half the population lives in and around the city. The rail and road net are concentrated there and it contains an international airport. Anchorage also happens to be near one of the few places an amphibious force could land.”
“What about the cross-polar assault?” the President asked.
“Our analysis teams have carefully combed recent intelligence data concerning the buildup in Ambarchik Base,” General Alan said. “It certainly is troubling. Unfortunately, we have lost our recon resources over the Arctic Ocean, and the Chinese keep destroying whatever we put up. So far, at least, there are no reports of enemy combatants in Prudhoe Bay or ANWR.”
“The fact the Chinese want to keep us in the dark over the Arctic Ocean tells us all we need to know,” the President said.
“Either that, sir,” General Alan said, “or that is what they want us to believe.”
President Clark frowned. “We need accurate data for an informed decision. I want reconnaissance flights made over the Arctic Ocean.”
“Yes, sir,” General Alan said. “We have several squadrons of winterized aircraft there, but almost no specialized UAVs for that environment.”
“Send them,” Clark said.
“It will take time.”
“Then start doing it now.” Clark drummed his fingers on the table as he glanced at Anna. “In order for everyone here to gain a clearer picture of who we’re dealing with, I would also like you, Ms. Chen, to give us a quick profile on the Chairman.”
Anna blushed as every eye turned toward her. “What specifics do you wish to know, sir?”
“Brief us on what you think is important for us to know about him.”
“Yes, sir,” Anna said. She sat quietly for a moment, thinking. Then she began to speak.
ARCTIC OCEAN
Paul awoke as the snowcat clanked up a pressure ridge. This one was an easy thirty feet higher than the surrounding terrain. The cat and therefore Paul’s seat tilted back at a steep angle.
He gripped the underside of his seat and looked out the right-side window. The pressure ridge snaked lengthways for as far as he could see. In the past, two plates of sea-ice had smashed against each other, grinding this ridge into existence. Icebreaker captains—those who used heavily-hulled ships to create a passage through ice—avoided pressure ridges if they could. Like an iceberg, pressure ridges had deeper ice below the waterline than what showed above. If it went thirty feet up here, the pressure ridge likely went an easy sixty or ninety feet down into the ocean.
Red Cloud sat transfixed, with his leathery hands gripped at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel. In the back, Murphy groaned. Paul had examined him earlier. There was a bullet in Murphy and he was getting worse. The man needed medical attention or he’d likely die.
Ice broke under the cat’s left tread so they sank into a soft area. The machine lurched leftward. It threw Murphy across the back, so his head hit one of the windows. It would have thrown Paul, but his muscles strained as he hung onto the underside of his seat. He’d taken his seatbelt off earlier so he could sleep easier. That had been a mistake.
Gunning the cat, Red Cloud accelerated them out of danger. He reached the top, and now the snowcat started down at a steep angle. Paul stared down at the snow, using his feet to keep him from catapulting against the windshield. If the Algonquin wasn’t careful, the machine would summersault down.
Paul wanted to shout at Red Cloud to be careful. He didn’t dare, however, fearing to break the Algonquin’s concentration.
Several minutes later, the cat straightened as it clanked off the pressure ridge and back onto the flat polar ice that extended into the darkness. They had an easy three hundred miles to go still before they reached Dead Horse. It might as well have been three thousand miles. It seemed like a trip to the moon—an impossibility.
“Thanks,” Murphy groaned from the back.
Paul glanced at Red Cloud. The Algonquin seemed lost in his own world, staring into the distance. Twisting around, Paul asked, “How you feeling?”
Murphy’s eyes were closed. Even thought it was relatively warm in here, he had his parka zipped up all the way to his throat, and he wore his hood. His face was slick with sweat, and he was white, much too white.
“Murphy, talk to me.”
Licking his moist lips, Murphy whispered, “My stomach feels as if it’s on fire. Where are we?”
“We’re headed home.”
Murphy opened a bleary eye. “Did you kill some of those gooks back at the rig?”
“Yeah, we got a few.”
Murphy coughed weakly, and it must have hurt. Each cough contorted his sweaty face. “I ain’t going to make it home, tough guy.”
“You hang in there,” Paul said.
Murphy shook his head. “My stomach—I can’t take much more of this pain. And the way the Indian drives, I think he’s trying to kill me.”
“You’re tough, Murphy. You hang tight.”
“You’re bull-headed, Kavanagh. And you have fists like granite. But you’re a crappy liar. I’m dying.” Murphy’s eyes opened as he stared at Paul. For the first time that Paul could remember, there was fear on Murphy’s face.
“I don’t want to die,” Murphy said. “I don’t want to…you know…face God for the things I’ve done. You believe in God?”
“…I guess so,” Paul said, not liking this kind of talk.
“Me too,” Murphy said. It seemed as if he tried to keep his eyes open, but they closed on their own accord. He shuddered, and his lips parted. He wheezed. It was a bad, bubbly sound.
Paul saw a trickle of red on Murphy’s lower lip. Reaching over the seat, he gripped the man’s wrist. “You hang on, Ranger. Do you hear me?”
“Yeah,” came the whispered word. “I don’t want to die.”
Paul’s grip tightened. Murphy’s skin was hot. He had to be well over one hundred and two degrees. Paul didn’t want to watch Murphy die in agonizing pain. The ex-Army Ranger was a hard case and a bully, but he was one of them, one of the Blacksand team at Arctic P-53.
“We’re almost out of gas,” Red Cloud said.
Paul released Murphy’s wrist and slid back into his seat. Before them was a vast plain of white, an icy Hell without end. With a bitter, deep-down loathing, Paul was beginning to hate the darkness.
“I guess the Chinese didn’t need to chase us,” Paul said. “We’re already dead out here.”
Red Cloud shook his head.
Out of the corner of his eye, Paul watched the Algonquin. He didn’t like Red Cloud, mainly because the Indian hated him and had fired him. Nevertheless, Paul had to admit the man didn’t have any quit in him. It helped him hang on because there was no way he was going to let a French-Canadian Algonquin outdo him.
“We should have looted some of their snowshoes,” Paul said.
“We have skis,” Red Cloud said.
Paul glanced back where Murphy lay on piles of supplies. “I don’t see any skis.”
“I strapped them up top.”
A ghost of a smile touched Paul’s lips. “Cross-country skis?”
“And a toboggan.”
“Good. We can lay Murphy on it and drag him with us.”
Red Cloud glanced at Paul, giving him a deadpan look. “Murphy stays with the cat.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Paul said.
Red Cloud examined his face before studying the terrain again. “The Arctic is a harsh land with harsh rules. If you want to die, we can take Murphy.”
“That’s why we Marines kicked the crap out of you separatists. We took care of our own.”
“You won because there were more of you than us, with more and bigger weapons. It is an old story.”
“You want to just bug-out on a dying man?” asked Paul.
“No. I do not want too.”
“Then what are you saying?” asked Paul.
“You already said it. He is dy
ing. Should we then die for the sake of a gesture?”
Paul twisted around, looking at Murphy. “I can’t leave him. It’s wrong, just wrong.”
“White Tiger Commandos attacked our rig,” Red Cloud said. “We must warn Blacksand about it.”
“I ain’t arguing with you about it. You leave if you want too. I’m pulling Murphy and that’s final.”
“You will die with him.”
“We’ll see.”
Red Cloud scowled. “We need the toboggan to carry our supplies.”
“Don’t you have any soul?” whispered Paul.
“No! I am an Indian, a savage.” There was fire in Red Cloud’s eyes. He spoke bitterly. “You are morally superior to me. That is why the Europeans were able to steal our land and rape our spirits. I am no more than an animal.”
Retreating from the sarcasm, Paul stared out his window. “You said it earlier, Chief. The Europeans had more guns and soldiers. I don’t know anything about moral imperative. What I do know is that the Marines taught me to carry my own back to our lines.”
“That is a worthy ideal when one possesses the means. Here, it is different. The choices are stark because the land will kill you otherwise.” Red Cloud glanced at the gas-gage.
Paul did, too. They’d had a few extra fuel pods of gas. Those were all dry now. Maybe, if Red Cloud drove carefully, they had another thirty miles before they ran out of fuel.
“He is already dying,” Red Cloud said.
Angrily, Paul lurched back, grabbing one of Murphy’s ankles. “Don’t listen to him.”
Murphy looked up groggily. “Huh?” he whispered, craning his neck. Then his head sagged back. It made him wheeze worse than before.
“Maybe we can take the bullet out of him,” Paul said.
Red Cloud breathed through his nose and kept driving.
Twenty-nine miles later, the snowcat died. The engine sputtered several times and it quit. They were out of gas, stranded on a vast white plain of polar ice. Overhead, the stars glittered with breathtaking beauty.
Red Cloud sat there as he released the steering wheel, his hands dropping like dead weights.
Paul had been thinking hard, wrestling with the ideas of life, death, honor and duty. He desperately wanted to see Cheri and Mikey again. The feeling had become an ache in his heart. And the thought that he’d die up here on the Arctic ice—it ate at him. Slowly, he roused himself, twisted around and shook Murphy’s ankle.
“Hey, you awake?” asked Paul.
Red Cloud clicked on the cat’s inner lights. The engine was dead, but they still had battery power.
Murphy’s skin had a greenish tinge. The area around his eyes was harsh red. With a shallow gasp, Murphy flickered his eyelids open to stare at Paul.
Paul swallowed hard.
“I don’t hear the engine,” Murphy whispered.
Paul said, “We’re out of gas.”
“That…that isn’t good.”
Paul forced himself to look at Murphy. “How you feeling?”
“Like it’s time for a rematch between us. This time, I’m going to kick your butt good.”
“Do you feel like going outside?”
Murphy’s lips compressed together. A false smile gave him a ghastly look. “Hey, Kavanagh, I’ve been dreaming about you two. You were discussing about what to do with me.”
“Yeah?”
“The Indian is right. I’m a dead man. You got to leave me here.”
Paul shook his head.
“But…” Murphy whispered, “I got to ask you a favor.”
The words came hard to Paul. “I can’t shoot you.”
“Not that. I want you to toast the gook that killed me.”
“Do you know who did it? Can you describe him to me?”
“I’ve been listening. It was a White Tiger Commando, one of them Chinese killers.”
“I don’t know which one,” Paul said.
“So you got to kill them all, Kavanagh. Grease them bastards for me.”
Miserably, Paul nodded.
“I want you to promise me. I want to hear it out loud. I want to know that I’ve sent me an avenging killer on their Chinese butts. Think you can do that?”
Paul reached out and took Murphy’s hand. “I’ll grease the one who killed you.”
“Which one?”
“All of them,” whispered Paul.
Murphy barely nodded. Then he relaxed as a grim smile stretched his lips. “Kill them all, Kavanagh, every stinking one of them.”
***
Paul wore cross-country skis and a heavy pack. It was cold outside, with a wind ruffling the fur ringing his hood. Red Cloud had skis and hooked a harness to his shoulders. The toboggan had the rest of their supplies, mostly the food that Paul had scrounged out of the mess hall. There were a few weapons and more ammo.
Inside the cat, Murphy stared out at him. The ex-Ranger’s breath hardly fogged the window.
“This is wrong,” Paul whispered.
“It is the way of the Arctic,” Red Cloud said.
Paul stared at Murphy, and he raised his arm. Murphy looked out, but he didn’t acknowledge the salute. Paul noticed the glaze to the ex-Ranger’s eyes. Maybe Murphy was already seeing into the next world.
Paul opened his mouth. He felt sick, with a grinding emptiness in his gut. It was like being in court again and hearing the judge say that Cheri had full custody of Mikey. The thought he’d never see his boy again had almost doubled him over in agony that day. He’d almost shouted in court, almost let tears drip from his eyes. That had been the hardest thing in his life. Leaving Murphy, it would always stain him.
Paul tried to swallow, but he couldn’t. Slowly, he slid his skis toward the cat.
“We must leave,” Red Cloud said.
Paul felt like a zombie, cursed to live like one of the undead. He yanked open the driver’s side door. Leaning over the tracks, he said, “Murphy?”
Silence.
“I’m sorry, Murphy,” Paul said, and moisture stung his eyes. “I’m sorry. I want to see my boy, my ex-wife. If I thought you’d live—”
“Remember your promise,” Murphy wheezed.
Paul was nodding. He’d remember. He had to remember because otherwise he could never look in a mirror again. He had a promise to fulfill before he got home. Grease the White Tiger Commandos who had killed everyone at the oilrig.
“Go,” wheezed Murphy. “Get it done.”
Paul slammed the door shut. It felt as if a steel door slammed down in his heart. It felt as if something good died in there. In its place was an icy resolve of hatred to keep his promise.
Murphy stared out of the window, his gaze seeing somewhere else than this world.
Paul shifted his shoulders, turned away from the stranded cat and began to slide his skis south to Dead Horse.
-10-
Amphibious Landing
PRCN PAO FENG
First Rank Lu Po was bitter. After destroying two American carriers in San Francisco Harbor, he’d expected to return to China to a hero’s welcome. Instead, he presently donned a wetsuit, ready to join the team going ashore tonight. They were supposed to take out several observation posts along an Alaskan beach in the Kenai Peninsula.
Closed-circuit cylinders sat beside lockers as eight other Commandos donned wetsuits. They moved around on hard rubber matting, with several bulbs providing light. It was tight quarters in here, with a closed hatch to Lu’s right and another hatch leading to the airlock chamber. The recycled air in the submarine tasted of oil and it left a gummy feeling on his face.
Beside Lu, slender Fighter Rank Wang shoved his leg into a wetsuit. They shared the same bench, and were slightly apart from the others.
Lu and Wang had escaped out of San Francisco Bay on their T-9, the only White Tiger Commandos to make it out alive. Lu had decided against surfacing and killing Wang along the way. The small karate expert had proved himself by knifing one of the East Lightning political officers on the trawler.
Lu remembered worrying about finding a Chinese submarine. There had been one on picket duty in the coordinates given them. After they’d boarded, the submarine’s captain had received orders to head north to Alaska.
Instead of a hero’s welcome back home in China, Lu Po and Wang found themselves unceremoniously joining the submarine’s Commando team.
“You will be with us for the duration,” the captain had told him.
That had been four thousand kilometers ago. Now the invasion fleet used its strike-craft to pound military targets all along the southern Alaskan coast. The submarine presently negotiated the entrance to Cook Inlet. The body of water went all the way to Anchorage. Lu had heard one of the submariners say the Americans had mined Cook Inlet, at least the northern half past the town of Kenai. Maybe they’d put a few stray mines out here.
The idea of drowning in a submarine churned within Lu. The good news was the invasion fleet’s aircraft had demolished countless American airbases along the coast, although Lu had heard they’d only gotten a few parked planes. Apparently, the Americans had been wise enough to ferry the aircraft farther inland. According to what Lu had heard, the carrier bombers had sunk any ship or sub daring to challenge Chinese naval supremacy. Now came the hard part, however, taking the land.
“I’ve heard every American in Alaska is a deer-slayer,” Wang whispered as he sat on the bench.
Lu shrugged as he glanced at the others. They all seemed self-absorbed, either donning or re-checking their equipment. Leaning near Wang, he whispered, “It is wrong making us take part in this dangerous task.”
“Why do you fear?” whispered Wang. “After destroying two carriers in the middle of an American harbor, this should be easy.”
“Do you think it works like that?” whispered Lu. “We’ve used up our luck surviving San Francisco. Hard task—great luck. So-called easy task like this—bad luck.”
Wang shook his head. “We’re heroes. Heroes always survive. You must cheer up.”
“How do you expect me to do that?” whispered Lu. “We should be home, paraded on TV. A Politburo minister should be handing us our marriage permits. Girls should be lining up for us to inspect them. Now we’re risking our necks after we’ve used up more luck than most people have in a lifetime. It is wrong for them to be doing this to us.”
Invasion: Alaska Page 23