“Please, no more shocks,” Han told the techs in the underground chamber with him.
“You will face a severe shock if your tank is destroyed,” a tech said near his ear. “But we have turned off the skin-strike shock-responder. Too many bullets are bouncing off your armor.”
“No!” shouted Han. “Why are you shocking me for dying, for my tank’s destruction? I’m on a suicide mission. It’s the reason our side is using drones.”
“Concentrate on your battlefield task,” a tech advised, “and do not quibble about drone doctrine.”
Han breathed heavily as he began to fear. He dreaded the idea of receiving another ‘death-shock.’ With a roar of anguish, he tore off his VR helmet and stood up in the pit. It was disorienting. The two techs at the boards swiveled around in their chairs, one on either side of him. Han’s head and shoulders were higher than the floor. The rest of his body was sunken in the pit.
“I’m finished with this,” said Han.
The shorter tech scowled. “If we must summon the enforcer, tell me now, as it will save time.”
“You mean the muscled lieutenant?” asked Han. The man had spoken to him earlier about obedience. Now the talk made sense.
“Exactly,” the tech said. “Now hurry please, inform us of your decision, as your stalled tank is causing confusion.”
Han swallowed hard, and he pleaded, “I can’t take more of those death-shocks.”
“Complaining is futile,” the taller tech said. “Simply get on with your task, and if you can, stay alive.” The tech turned to a com-board, before glancing a last time at Han and raising an eyebrow.
“Stay alive,” Han whispered. He nodded as he shoved the VR helmet onto his head. The Alaskan scene leaped back into view. The sounds of battle played in his earpiece, but not so loudly that he couldn’t hear the battle operator’s comments.
With his twitch-gloves, Han used his cameras to look around. Most of the other tank-drones were ahead of him now. Each tank was a Xing T-29 ‘Marauder,’ a light tank with an un-turreted 130mm smoothbore gun and two 12.7mm machineguns. A small AI inside the tank fired the weapons in real time. As any online gamer would know, the lag from China to Alaska would make precision firing impossible for Han. He supplied the drone’s ‘strategic’ guidance.
After moments of assessment, Han shouted, “My tank can’t fire its main gun at the ATGMs at the top of the hills!”
The American teams had just launched TOW2 missiles, taking out one of the Marauders. Now American recoilless rifles opened up from the top of the hill.
In the Mukden pit, Han twitched his gloves like mad. His remote-controlled tank reversed, slewed to the slide and roared ahead, racing to a burning Marauder. Shells landed around him as a TOW2 missile whooshed past. His AI fired a flechette beehive defender. It sprayed the air with eraser-sized tungsten balls. The beehive was supposed to take out swaths of infantry. Han had instructed the AI to use it to try to take out the TOW2 missiles.
“You must attack the enemy,” a battle operator said.
“Yes, yes,” panted Han.
He used his position behind the two burning Marauders. He clanked forward, fired, and dodged back behind the two wrecks for cover. Why wasn’t their artillery firing smoke shells? He needed covering smoke to help hide him until the last moment.
“You must charge the Americans,” said the battle operator. “You are a suicide vehicle.”
“I will survive,” whispered Han. He absolutely dreaded the death-shock.
For thirty seconds no one talked to him. Han remained behind the burning Marauders. In the pit, he twitched his gloves to keep the techs off his back, but he was only communicating with his Marauder’s AI.
“Captain Han!” a man roared in his ear. “You will advance on the Americans or face court-martial and a firing squad afterward.”
Licking his lips, Han moved his remote-controlled tank out of hiding. Chinese IFVs roared past his drone and raced for the slopes. Attack helicopters swarmed overhead, pouring chaingun-fire down on the Americans.
Heaving a deep sigh, Han revved his engine and roared after the IFVs. If he could stay close enough to them, maybe the enemy would target the infantry carriers instead of his Marauder.
The next few minutes proved to be a cauldron of vicious fighting. The Americans held their positions, dying even as they dealt death. Wyvern and Blowdart missiles, TOW2 anti-tank missiles, grenades, bullets and 155mm artillery shells destroying choppers, IFVs, Marauders and the naval infantry leaping out of the carriers. The naval infantry fought up the slopes and fired the handheld SPET-missiles at the strongpoints. It was the hardest fighting of the war so far.
The 160th Naval Battalion and the two companies of Marauder drone tanks took casualties as the 322nd Naval Infantry Battalion edged closer for their turn at the gap.
“You must break through!” the battlefield operator shouted at Han. “Smash into their rear area, find the command post and obliterate it.”
In the underground center in Mukden, in the controller’s pit, Han guided his drone on the Number One Highway as he moved between the hills. He raced through the gap, with several IFVs clanking behind him.
“Find the CP!” the battle operator said.
“Where?” shouted Han. “Where is it?” Then his AI spotted an American officer behind a boulder. The officer waved his arm, sending reinforcements up the American side of the hill to help their beleaguered brethren on top.
Han revved his engine as the AI fired its 130mm cannon and blew away the boulder. Unsure whether the drone had killed the officer or not, Han charged the area. His camera spotted movement on a rear slope about two hundred meters behind the last American trench. He used zoom, seeing a long barrel and the top of a turret. Quick analysis told him it was a tank, an American Abrams M1A2.
Han swore as he made his sedan-sized Marauder swerve. It upset the AI’s calculations. There was a muzzle flash from the long enemy smoothbore. Something fast zoomed toward Han.
Then Captain Han yelled as his Xing T-29 Marauder burst into flames from a direct hit. Han shouted louder as he received his death-shock. Then he slumped into unconsciousness. For him, the battle was over.
ARCTIC OCEAN
The wind howled around General Shin Nung, hero of the Siberian War. Nine years ago in 2023, his aggressive armored thrust had captured Yakutsk. He was the present commander of the Cross-Polar Taskforce, ready to win yet another campaign for the Chairman. He was on the Arctic Ocean pack ice, having traveled thousands of kilometers from Ambarchik Base in Eastern Siberia. His Chinese taskforce was headed for Dead Horse, Alaska.
The blasting noise of the blizzard had driven like nails into his head so his eyes continuously pulsed with pain. He wore a heavy parka, with a woolen ski mask protecting his face and with goggles over his tormented eyes. With his thick mittens, he grasped a towline. He pulled himself through the ‘whiteout.’ The wind continually shoved against him.
The polar blizzard had been howling for days, grounding everything. The blizzard whipped up the powdery snow on the pack ice. It was impossible to see the hundreds of parked vehicles around him.
Nung gripped the towline, dragging himself along. The powdery snow didn’t compress together as he walked over it. Instead, it slid out from under his feet, making this a treacherous endeavor.
He’d been making the rounds between hovertanks, snowtanks, caterpillar-haulers and infantry carriers. This was the advance group. Behind him for hundreds of kilometers, were combat engineers building airstrips and creating a polar road. So far, the taskforce had made it halfway from Ambarchik Base to their targeted destination.
Today or tonight—it was always dark—he’d discovered three infantry carrier crews dead from asphyxiation. They hadn’t followed procedures as they heated their stalled vehicles. Such a senseless loss made General Nung frown.
It’s Commissar Yongzheng and his killers. Why did High Command saddle me with East Lightning operatives and this muddled approach to
polar warfare?
It was maddening. He knew how to achieve victory, but these rules of approach were binding him. It was the wrong way to grab the American oilfields. If High Command had listened to him, the battle for Alaska would already be over.
For Nung, the blizzard slackened as he reached the command caterpillar. Yongzheng was in there. Maybe after witnessing this blizzard, the commissar could understand the situation and see the truth.
Gripping metal, Nung twisted and opened the hatch. Heat poured around him and light bloomed into existence as three men swiveled around in the caterpillar. They wore heavy shirts, but no parkas. One showed anger but quickly changed into obedient acceptance of the opened door.
“Hello, General,” that man said, a lieutenant of the data-net.
The thinnest man in the caterpillar showed distaste as if he’d eaten a rotten egg. He was Commissar Yongzheng. He was thin and had long fingers like the violinist he was. He had delicate, sensitive features, almost like a girl.
Gripping his shirt collar and shivering, Yongzheng said, “Close the hatch, General. It’s freezing.”
General Nung scowled. The commissar’s mannerisms were effeminate. It angered him every time he realized that this violinist had veto power over every one of his command decisions.
The last of the three was the opposite of Yongzheng. The East Lightning killer seemed like some primate proto-human with crude features and coarse mannerisms. The henchman had eyes like oil, and they never turned away when Nung stared at him. The general found that enraging. Several times, he’d debated shooting the killer in the back and leaving him in the snow. Unfortunately, the brute never left Yongzheng’s side.
As he tore off his ski mask and hood, Nung slammed the hatch shut. It was stiflingly hot in here. There was communication equipment piled on both sides of the caterpillar. It was a drone remote-controlling caterpillar, one of several in the taskforce.
“I found another three crews dead,” Nung said. “This delay is killing us. We need to move, to make the crews work.”
“Move in this nightmare?” asked Yongzheng. “Are you joking, General?”
The commissar’s tone infuriated Nung just as much as the insulting question.
“You’ve heard the signals,” Nung said. “There’s heavy fighting near Anchorage. We need to attack the North Slope while the others hit the south coast. We can’t let the Americans use their interior position to shift troops as needed.”
“We are attacking,” said Yongzheng.
“No. We’re grounded in the middle of the Arctic Ocean.”
“Well, certainly we are at this moment,” said Yongzheng. “Once this horrible weather ends, we shall continue our advance.”
General Nung shook his head as he made a fist. “We need to gather all our supplies in the caterpillar-haulers, form a fast taskforce and thrust our way to the North Slope.” He made a boxing motion to illustrate his meaning.
“Please, I’m well acquainted with your theories. There is no need to demonstrate.”
“We’re losing time just sitting here,” Nung said.
Yongzheng shrugged.
Nung turned away and clenched his teeth.
“Please, your theatrics are amusing and help pass the time, but I’m sure they’re not good for your blood pressure. You must relax and save your zeal for the moment we meet the Americans.”
Nung whirled around as he dropped a hand onto his holster.
The bodyguard half rose from his chair. His dark eyes were fixed on Nung.
“No, no,” said Yongzheng, with a waving gesture. “Relax, Mingli. The General merely exhibits his frustration. I agree with him that this weather is most infuriating. When it subsides, I’m sure we’ll move quickly.”
“We cannot ‘move quickly’,” Nung said between his gritted teeth.
“Ah, yes, I keep forgetting,” said Yongzheng. “The weight of our vehicles demand low speeds as we travel over the pack ice. Too fast and the vehicle rocks the water under the ice, creating waves that could possibly destroy the ice. You see, General, I was well briefed before joining your expedition.”
“Let me unleash the hovertanks,” Nung said. “They can move with speed, without creating any wave-action. From here, it’s a short hop until they reach the North Slope.
Commissar Yongzheng examined his fingernails. “How many of the hovertanks have broken down already?”
“Fourteen,” Nung said.
“Incorrect,” said Yongzheng. “Please, General, I know you’re a stickler for facts. I would prefer if you used them while addressing me.”
Nung struggled to control his temper. He was the military man. This police creature knew little about combat and winning wars. It was said the hovertanks were finicky vehicles, prone to breakdowns. That’s why they needed the best crews with an onboard mechanic added to each vehicle.
“I’m waiting for your answer,” said Yongzheng.
“Thirty-seven,” Nung finally said, “but we’ve fixed many of them.”
“Your techs patched up the hovertanks?”
“They’re mechanics,” muttered Nung, “not techs.”
“Ah, yes, your precision makes itself known once more. Thank you for the correction.”
“Fourteen, thirty-seven,” Nung said, “the number doesn’t matter. We need speed to dash to the North Slope.”
“But that’s simply absurd,” said Yongzheng. “If thirty-seven hovertanks have broken down so far, how many will break down before you reach Alaska? Given the geometric proportion of the number of breakdowns the farther we travel, I would estimate an eighty percent loss of your machines by the time they reach the enemy coast. You cannot take the oilfields with a mere twenty percent of your hovertanks.”
“Firstly,” Nung said with heat, “I can. Secondly, only fifty percent would break down.”
“What is your reasoning?”
“Speed and surprise is a force multiplier. Only a handful of units are needed then. Once I’ve captured the oilfields, you can use the heavy air-transports to land garrison forces.”
Yongzheng shook his head.
“But—”
Yongzheng lifted a long-fingered hand. “I have my orders and you have yours. This blizzard changes nothing. High Command wishes for a methodical advance across the ice. If you dash for the oilfields, American bombers will demolish your pitiful force. You need fighters to cover you and snowtanks to provide muscle for the battle.”
General Shin Nung crashed into an empty chair. He hated this weather, the useless deaths and the East Lighting commissar with veto power. It would be a risk dashing over the ice with hovertanks. If this blizzard had hit a hovertank taskforce…he might have lost everything. They would need an open window of good weather, but only a short one if every hovertank moved at maximum speed. This slow, methodical advance, it meant they spent far too much time on the ice. If he were the American commander, he knew of ten different ways to stall them out here and possibly destroy them. The ice was an enemy. It wasn’t simply another form of road. Every minute they remained on the pack ice, the potential for disaster increased. He could give China the greatest possibility for victory, but they had saddled him with small thinkers.
Why am I always surrounded by the ordinary when extraordinary commanders are required?
He’d broken through and dashed to Yakutat during the Siberian War. He’d ended the conflict by dealing with problems directly and twisting the elements to suit him. Maybe it was time to do that here. It entailed risk, not only a military risk but also a political one.
Marshal Kao had given him Commissar Yongzheng to spite him. Maybe it was time to gamble everything—life and career—on one bold throw of the dice. The Chairman would reward a victor. If he failed in this assault by their methods, Kao and his clique of mandarins would sacrifice him anyway. They would use any excuse to squash what they could only envy.
Nung touched his holster. By adding a little more pressure to his fingers, he could unsnap the flap. The
desire to draw his gun and shoot was nearly overpowering.
“Turn up the heat,” Yongzheng told his bodyguard.
The man grunted as he got up and went to the temperature control.
“I have more vehicles to inspect,” Nung said.
“Away with you then,” said Yongzheng, gesturing with his hand.
Nung rose and lurched for the door.
“Oh,” said Yongzheng, as if it was an afterthought. “I forgot to tell you. There was a radio message concerning, hmm, our situation.”
“We’re supposed to keep radio silence once we’re this far across the pack ice,” Nung said.
“Yes, yes, but this message was different.”
Nung waited for Yongzheng to tell him.
“I’m afraid I’ve detected that explosive mind of yours plotting for something grand,” said Yongzheng.
General Nung frowned.
“Because of that, I asked my superiors to take your wife and children into protective custody.”
“What?” shouted Nung.
Yongzheng shrugged. “It sullies our working relationship, I’m sure. But it might also clarify the situation. General Nung, you are an active general, well-suited to battle. That is a wonderful trait for a fighting commander. But it makes one in my position nervous. I have thwarted your desires a few too many times. This blizzard and the eternal darkness, it is maddening, and might induce one to madness. Therefore, I would formally like to let you know that my sudden demise will result in your wife’s untimely death. It is an awful thing to say, and I’m sorry to say it. But there it is—a new working relationship between us.”
“You…you monster,” breathed Nung.
“I accept your epitaph for my horrid action, as it’s well-deserved. But please, let us keep that between ourselves for now and spare the troops such descriptive words. Save the name for your memoirs.”
Nung leaned against the hatch. His wife and children—his desire for victory oozed away. He shook his head.
“This cannot be,” he said.
“It leaves a bad aftertaste, I agree,” said Yongzheng, and his eyes were bright as they latched onto Nung.
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