Invasion: Alaska ia-1, page 27
part #1 of Invasion America Series
“Keep attacking!” the Air Chief radioed. “Engage them. Keep them from the transports.”
The last two pilots kept going, seeking visual range. They would use their cannons. They never made it as Chinese missiles killed one and damaged the other, forcing the pilot to turn for home. Though the Americans didn’t know it, their air-to-air missiles had killed one of the Mongooses.
Using afterburners, the rest of the Chinese fighters now swung around Anchorage. They had a healthy respect for the laser batteries. The fighters swung to the south of Anchorage, thereby giving themselves more range from the Talkeetna pulse-laser than if they’d gone to the north.
Chinese radar burned through American jamming and presented them with three massive targets: 747s. From thirty-four kilometers away, the Chinese launched Black Thunder air-to-air missiles. They were radar-guided, a deadly piece of ordnance.
The big transports had been engaging their anti-radar jamming as well as ejecting chaff and EW decoys. It was a war of computer chips and software. Three Black Thunder missiles veered off course. One hit an EW decoy, creating an intense explosion in the sky. Two of the missiles zoomed at the lumbering transports. The first slammed into the giant aircraft and exploded spectacularly in a massive fireball, consuming jet fuel and incinerating the majority of the fighting men aboard. The survivors plummeted to Earth. No parachutes deployed from those inert figures. The second 747 was luckier at first. With smoke billowing from a joint of wing and body, the monstrous plane made an emergency landing on a highway. Tires skidded and smoke billowed from the rubber. It was looking good until the end. The wheels left the blacktop and hit gravel. The left wing went down, hitting the ground, scraping. Metal sparked and screeched. Seconds later, a fireball explosion killed every U.S. Army Ranger aboard.
The last 747 survived the air-to-air missile barrage, a tribute to chaff, EW decoys and luck. The pilot also attempted to jink, giving his passengers a wild and terrifying ride.
Two of the Chinese fighter-jocks became overeager, unsatisfied with their destruction and wanting more. Trusting in their jamming, they raced into Anchorage’s sanctuary zone. They wanted the last transport and therefore came within range of the airport’s defensive lasers. One of the Chinese fighters disintegrated in the air, parts simply dropping away. The remaining fighter veered away sharply. The pilot must have come to his senses as he fled for safety.
In the end, one 747 landed at the airport, disgorging the needed soldiers onto the tarmac.
It also started an argument between General Sims and his Air Chief. Should they rush the needed troops to Anchorage or land farther away at Fairbanks and put the soldiers on a train for the front? It was a matter of time, keeping air-transports intact and sheer desperation. Sims needed to stem the Chinese advance, and for that he required more and better-trained soldiers and always tons more munitions.
USS MINNESOTA
Captain Roger Clemens stood at the command module of his Virginia-class nuclear-powered fast attack submarine. It was also known as a 774 class. His hands gripped the module’s sides. He mustn’t let the crew know he was having doubts.
I’m going to die today.
Captain Clemens knew it because he was going to show the Chinese what happened when you challenged the United States of America on its home ground.
“The destroyer is turning north four degrees, sir,” the boat chief said.
Tightening his grip on the module, Captain Clemens watched the VR blips. The module was one of the newest improvements of this submarine. He swallowed. They had spent the last ninety-seven minutes sneaking up on a carrier in the center of the defensive zone surrounding it, using a deep layer of cold water to do so. During these last few minutes, they had crawled out of the layer and into the warmer, upper water.
Captain Clemens was a small man. He had a narrow nose and close-set eyes. He now removed his captain’s cap and pulled a comb out of his back pocket. He ran the comb through his thick dark hair. His mother and later his wife—before the divorce—had continuously commented about it. Combing his luxuriously thick hair was a nervous habit of long standing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught one of the sonar men nudging his fellow. The other man looked up, and both craned around to glance at him.
“Do you have something to report?” asked Clemens.
The two sailors turned back to their sensors, their heads hunched as they peered intently at their monitors.
Clemens swallowed as he realized they thought his behavior odd. He put away the comb, put on his hat and tightened his grip on the module so his fingers began to ache.
I’m going to show the Chinese what it means to come stomping in our playground.
The chief, a big man with a red face, moved beside him. “Are you feeling well, Captain?” he whispered.
Clemens couldn’t answer that even though he wanted to present the calm image of a daring and tough-minded submarine captain. He’d watched every movie ever made about submarines and knew how a good captain was supposed to act. During his younger days, he’d read endlessly about underwater warfare. The last time there had been a really good naval war involving submarines had been between the Imperial Japanese Navy and the American Navy during World War Two. Now there had been a group of submariners. No one had ever beaten the records of those American submarine captains. His favorite story in those days had been called, “The Skipper who Hated the Japanese.” In the story, Bridge Commander Sam Dealey had shown the Japanese that American subs could hunt destroyers. Clemens still knew the story by heart, and had always wanted to emulate Sam Dealey, a lean, quick-tempered Texan.
“What’s our way out?” the chief whispered.
With an effort of will, Captain Clemens tapped the module. “Right there,” he said. “We’re hitting it.”
“The carrier?” asked the chief, sounding shocked. “If we attack them now from where we are they’ll pinpoint us, sir.”
“I have an idea about that,” said Clemens. He wanted to destroy an enemy carrier. He wanted people to point at him and whisper to each other about his courage. Yes, they would say it took fantastic courage to slip in among hunting destroyers and helicopters and demolish a Chinese supercarrier. The Chinese had taken the place of the Imperial Japanese. Why was it always one of the Asiatic peoples trying to attack America? What was wrong with them anyway?
“What idea, sir?” the chief asked, looking at him closely.
Clemens tapped the image of the carrier again.
“Can you tell me your plan, sir?” asked the chief.
Clemens was hardly aware of the question. He was thinking about his early years in the service. He’d joined when America had been the predominant naval force in the world. It was inconceivable the Chinese could better them. If the Imperial Japanese hadn’t been able to do it, how did the nationalistic Chinese think they could?
We beat the Japanese. Heck, we destroyed their entire navy, just about sank every one of them. Now I’m going to destroy a Chinese carrier.
“Maybe we should rethink this, sir,” the chief whispered.
“Ready torpedo tubes two and three,” Clemens said.
The chief blinked at him. There was fear in his eyes.
“Four degrees starboard and up fifty feet,” Clemens said. “I want us in firing range.”
“You can’t go up there, sir,” the chief whispered. “They’ll pinpoint us for sure.”
Clemens pointed at the image on the module. “Do it, Chief, or face a court martial when we dock.”
The chief’s head swayed back as if he’d been slapped. His blunt features turned crimson. He gave the needed orders, and then he went across the bridge, standing far away from Captain Clemens.
That suits me just fine. The chief needs to do something about his body odor.
For the next fifteen minutes, Clemens gave clipped orders. The Chinese had the advantage with their advanced tech and superior numbers. Well, he was going to change that. They’d taken out two American carriers with a dirty terrorist attack. He was going to hunt down the Chinese carriers and take them out one at a time. He was going to show the world what the American Silent Service was made of.
“There!” Clemens said, as he stared at the blips on his module. “Fire torpedoes two and three.”
Every gaze swiveled toward the chief.
“I’ve given my order,” said Clemens.
The chief nodded, and there was sweat on his crimson face.
The Minnesota shivered as the two Mk48 ADCAP Mod 7 torpedoes left the submarine’s tubes. Each torpedo was nineteen feet long and carried a six hundred and fifty pound warhead.
“Down fifty feet,” Clemens said, “and turn us around. We’re leaving the same way we came in.”
Using their swashplate piston engines, the torpedoes sped through the murky waters as Clemens watched the timer on his module. He waited, and he stopped breathing. The torpedoes used Otto fuel II, a monopropellant. The fuel decomposed into hot gas when ignited, adding to the warhead’s power. As Clemens thought about that, a mighty explosion sounded. It was a clear and violent sound, and it was many times louder than it should have been. The accompanying pressure-wave made the Minnesota groan in metallic protest.
“Depths charges!” one of the sonar-men shouted.
“They must be dropping them from a helicopter,” the chief said.
Clemens stared at the chief as the blood drained from his face. He hated helicopters. Unconsciously, he drew his comb.
“They’re dropping more!” the sonar-man shouted.
Clemens dropped his comb in surprise. As he bent to pick it up off the deck plates, the other depth charge exploded, and it ruptured the forward hull of the Virginia-class fast attack boat. The big submarine tilted and it shook worse than before as all around came more metallic groans.
“Emergency!” the chief shouted. He tripped as another depth charge exploded. The chief went down hard, hitting his head on a stanchion.
Before anyone could race to help the bleeding chief, before Captain Clemens could give a word of encouragement, a powerful explosion ruptured the hull. Freezing cold, dark water poured in at a frightening rate. It swept up crewmen and threw them against the bulkheads.
It was the end of the Minnesota, the end of Captain Clemens and his crew. None of them would ever know that they hadn’t been hunting a carrier, but one of the Chinese fuel tankers. Its size had fooled Clemens and his crew into thinking it was a supercarrier. This tanker had been waiting to unload its precious cargo. The needed diesel now began spreading across the gray waters of the Gulf of Alaska.
ARCTIC OCEAN
Paul Kavanagh slid across the pack ice on his skis. It was so bitterly cold that his bones ached. The howling wind blew against him, and it threw fine particles of snow across the eerie landscape. The flat terrain spread in all directions, an icy desert with an ocean underground.
There were different kinds of ridges and low formations. If a piece of ice slid over another, it was called rafted ice. The Algonquin had spoken to him some time ago about ice islands. Those came from glaciers, drifting in the summer and freezing into the pack ice later.
Paul didn’t care about any of it. He just skied. He moved into the freezing wind, determined to survive, to beat the Algonquin at the Indian’s own game. If he endured, he would see his son again. He had fantasies about making things right with Cheri. Those were the best thoughts. He’d escaped into his mind as he journeyed through the eternal darkness. Sometimes, the worst times, he would see Murphy again in his mind’s eye. He’d see the ex-Army Ranger peering at him through the cat’s window. It was those staring eyes, the ones that saw—
Paul shook his head. He didn’t want to see Murphy any more. He just needed to ski, to push the long runners over the ice, listening to their crunch and hiss.
The wind howled against him. It blew against his eyes and pierced the woolen fabric of his ski mask. It made his cheeks numb. His lips were cracked and bleeding. The shrieking wind hammered spikes into his brain, or it seemed to. He wanted a beer, warm beer, some Guinness. If he could sit in a bar by a fire and just sip beer for a month—that would be Paradise.
Instead, he was here, trying to reach Dead Horse, Alaska. Chinese had slaughtered the oilmen. Chinese Special Forces backpack-flyers had tried to add him to the list of the dead.
Paul shook his head again. He’d killed the killers. That was good. If he survived—Paul shook his head a third time, more stubbornly. When he survived, or at the end of this journey, he’d go to the oil company or maybe even to Blacksand headquarters and explain what he’d done. They might give him his back pay. Heck, they might reward him. Cheri and Mikey could use the reward money.
You’re not going to defeat me, Geronimo.
Thinking about the Algonquin, Paul looked up into the Arctic wind.
Ahead, John Red Cloud skied like an automaton, pulling the toboggan loaded with their supplies. The Algonquin didn’t have any quit in him. He’d put his head down into the wind and rhythmically poked the ice with the ends of his ski poles. The man refused to rest. He only stopped by his watch.
They huddled together then and climbed into sleeping bags. Red Cloud used the toboggan like a shield, laying it against him. When the watch’s alarm went off, the Algonquin refused to let Paul sleep in. Red Cloud climbed out of the bag, used a tiny sterno stove and heated coffee.
The hot coffee always felt good going down. It helped Paul climb out of his sleeping bag and ski another day toward Alaska.
Paul was tired now. The storm had howled in the morning—but he’d climbed out of the sleeping bag anyway. It still howled. The assault-gun-strap dug into his shoulder. The assault rifle was heavy, but there was no way he’d toss it. He had White Tigers to kill.
The more Paul thought about it, the less sense it made that Chinese Special Forces had attacked the platform. Was there an oil war going on that no one talked about?
He might have shrugged, but that would take too much energy. He was cold, tired and wanted to stop. One of his fears was that either the Algonquin or he would get sick. If he got sick, Paul knew the Algonquin would simply leave him behind as they’d left Murphy.
What if the Algonquin gets sick? Will I leave him behind?
Paul shivered. If the Indian died or sickened… Paul hated the idea of trekking across the ice by himself. Did Red Cloud feel the same way about him?
His thoughts clouded then. It took too much effort to think. He would survive. He would push himself no matter what happened. The hope of making things right with Cheri and seeing his son again, it was a spur. And he had a promise to Murphy.
Don’t think about him. Just don’t.
So Paul didn’t. He endured, and he followed John Red Cloud across the pack ice.
PRCN SUNG
Admiral Ling sat very still as he heard the news about the destroyed tanker.
“Did she unload first?” asked Ling.
“No, sir,” said Commodore Yen.
The two men were in the admiral’s ready room with its costly silk paintings on the walls. The room tilted back and forth as the big carrier rode out a storm. Even this deep in the ship, they heard the icy hail striking the monstrous warship.
“Do you hear that?” asked Ling. “The hail striking metal?”
The Commodore nodded.
Each of the aging men sat in a comfortable chair. The older sat behind an ornate teak desk. The younger and taller Commodore sat before it.
“Winter will come early to this region,” said Ling. “I’m beginning to think we’re cursed.”
Even though they were alone in the room, Commodore Yen glanced about nervously. Maybe with his VR monocle he saw more than others could. Maybe years of caution motivated him. “I ask that you be careful about what you say, sir. The walls have ears.”
Admiral Ling waved away the suggestion.
“I must hasten to add that the Chairman has declared us liberators,” said Yen. “We fight for the Eskimos and their freedom.”
“I’m too old for that nonsense,” Ling said, opening a drawer. He took out an old bottle of baijiu, clunking it onto his desk. After setting out two thick glasses, he poured a liberal splash into each. He handed one glass to Yen. The white liquor sloshed back and forth, as the room continued to tilt.
“The Vice-Admiral sulks,” Commodore Yen said, cradling his glass with both hands. “Your scolding a few days ago—”
“I didn’t scold him,” said Ling. “I berated the incompetent fool for losing the Seward depot. Now we’ve lost another of our fuel tankers to these cagey American submariners. We cannot lose more of these precious vessels or their cargos. Our fuel situation has become more than troublesome.”
“Please, sir, listen to me,” Yen said. “The Vice-Admiral has the Chairman’s ear. If he sulks, it means he is sending his uncle reports about you.”
Admiral Ling tossed the baijiu down his throat. It made the right half of his face twitch, which highlighted the left, dead half.
“The harder you berate the Vice-Admiral,” said Yen, “the harder the Chairman will likely come down on you for any…failures.”
For the first time, Ling looked shocked. “Do you think we will fail?”
“I think before we lost the latest tanker that our fuel situation was tight. Now it is much worse.”
“We have enough fuel for several weeks of combat,” said Ling. “That is long enough for us to reach and conquer Anchorage.”
“The Americans are fighting hard in Moose Pass. Maybe the others will learn to do likewise.”
“Do not expect anything from the Vice-Admiral’s men,” said Ling. “I know that I do not. It makes his blunders more tolerable.”
“Sir—”
Admiral Ling shook his head. Once he had Yen’s attention, he poured more baijiu for each of them. “I am unloading the Army vehicles.”
“The tanks?” asked Yen.
Admiral Ling nodded. “I will do more than unload them, but send them into battle.”
“The Army tanks guzzle fuel,”
Ling swirled the white liquor in his glass, regarding it. “We have a narrow window for victory. That is my belief. The Americans must know about our fuel shortage. Why otherwise destroy the storage facilities in Seward and trade their submarines for a tanker’s destruction?”
The last two pilots kept going, seeking visual range. They would use their cannons. They never made it as Chinese missiles killed one and damaged the other, forcing the pilot to turn for home. Though the Americans didn’t know it, their air-to-air missiles had killed one of the Mongooses.
Using afterburners, the rest of the Chinese fighters now swung around Anchorage. They had a healthy respect for the laser batteries. The fighters swung to the south of Anchorage, thereby giving themselves more range from the Talkeetna pulse-laser than if they’d gone to the north.
Chinese radar burned through American jamming and presented them with three massive targets: 747s. From thirty-four kilometers away, the Chinese launched Black Thunder air-to-air missiles. They were radar-guided, a deadly piece of ordnance.
The big transports had been engaging their anti-radar jamming as well as ejecting chaff and EW decoys. It was a war of computer chips and software. Three Black Thunder missiles veered off course. One hit an EW decoy, creating an intense explosion in the sky. Two of the missiles zoomed at the lumbering transports. The first slammed into the giant aircraft and exploded spectacularly in a massive fireball, consuming jet fuel and incinerating the majority of the fighting men aboard. The survivors plummeted to Earth. No parachutes deployed from those inert figures. The second 747 was luckier at first. With smoke billowing from a joint of wing and body, the monstrous plane made an emergency landing on a highway. Tires skidded and smoke billowed from the rubber. It was looking good until the end. The wheels left the blacktop and hit gravel. The left wing went down, hitting the ground, scraping. Metal sparked and screeched. Seconds later, a fireball explosion killed every U.S. Army Ranger aboard.
The last 747 survived the air-to-air missile barrage, a tribute to chaff, EW decoys and luck. The pilot also attempted to jink, giving his passengers a wild and terrifying ride.
Two of the Chinese fighter-jocks became overeager, unsatisfied with their destruction and wanting more. Trusting in their jamming, they raced into Anchorage’s sanctuary zone. They wanted the last transport and therefore came within range of the airport’s defensive lasers. One of the Chinese fighters disintegrated in the air, parts simply dropping away. The remaining fighter veered away sharply. The pilot must have come to his senses as he fled for safety.
In the end, one 747 landed at the airport, disgorging the needed soldiers onto the tarmac.
It also started an argument between General Sims and his Air Chief. Should they rush the needed troops to Anchorage or land farther away at Fairbanks and put the soldiers on a train for the front? It was a matter of time, keeping air-transports intact and sheer desperation. Sims needed to stem the Chinese advance, and for that he required more and better-trained soldiers and always tons more munitions.
USS MINNESOTA
Captain Roger Clemens stood at the command module of his Virginia-class nuclear-powered fast attack submarine. It was also known as a 774 class. His hands gripped the module’s sides. He mustn’t let the crew know he was having doubts.
I’m going to die today.
Captain Clemens knew it because he was going to show the Chinese what happened when you challenged the United States of America on its home ground.
“The destroyer is turning north four degrees, sir,” the boat chief said.
Tightening his grip on the module, Captain Clemens watched the VR blips. The module was one of the newest improvements of this submarine. He swallowed. They had spent the last ninety-seven minutes sneaking up on a carrier in the center of the defensive zone surrounding it, using a deep layer of cold water to do so. During these last few minutes, they had crawled out of the layer and into the warmer, upper water.
Captain Clemens was a small man. He had a narrow nose and close-set eyes. He now removed his captain’s cap and pulled a comb out of his back pocket. He ran the comb through his thick dark hair. His mother and later his wife—before the divorce—had continuously commented about it. Combing his luxuriously thick hair was a nervous habit of long standing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught one of the sonar men nudging his fellow. The other man looked up, and both craned around to glance at him.
“Do you have something to report?” asked Clemens.
The two sailors turned back to their sensors, their heads hunched as they peered intently at their monitors.
Clemens swallowed as he realized they thought his behavior odd. He put away the comb, put on his hat and tightened his grip on the module so his fingers began to ache.
I’m going to show the Chinese what it means to come stomping in our playground.
The chief, a big man with a red face, moved beside him. “Are you feeling well, Captain?” he whispered.
Clemens couldn’t answer that even though he wanted to present the calm image of a daring and tough-minded submarine captain. He’d watched every movie ever made about submarines and knew how a good captain was supposed to act. During his younger days, he’d read endlessly about underwater warfare. The last time there had been a really good naval war involving submarines had been between the Imperial Japanese Navy and the American Navy during World War Two. Now there had been a group of submariners. No one had ever beaten the records of those American submarine captains. His favorite story in those days had been called, “The Skipper who Hated the Japanese.” In the story, Bridge Commander Sam Dealey had shown the Japanese that American subs could hunt destroyers. Clemens still knew the story by heart, and had always wanted to emulate Sam Dealey, a lean, quick-tempered Texan.
“What’s our way out?” the chief whispered.
With an effort of will, Captain Clemens tapped the module. “Right there,” he said. “We’re hitting it.”
“The carrier?” asked the chief, sounding shocked. “If we attack them now from where we are they’ll pinpoint us, sir.”
“I have an idea about that,” said Clemens. He wanted to destroy an enemy carrier. He wanted people to point at him and whisper to each other about his courage. Yes, they would say it took fantastic courage to slip in among hunting destroyers and helicopters and demolish a Chinese supercarrier. The Chinese had taken the place of the Imperial Japanese. Why was it always one of the Asiatic peoples trying to attack America? What was wrong with them anyway?
“What idea, sir?” the chief asked, looking at him closely.
Clemens tapped the image of the carrier again.
“Can you tell me your plan, sir?” asked the chief.
Clemens was hardly aware of the question. He was thinking about his early years in the service. He’d joined when America had been the predominant naval force in the world. It was inconceivable the Chinese could better them. If the Imperial Japanese hadn’t been able to do it, how did the nationalistic Chinese think they could?
We beat the Japanese. Heck, we destroyed their entire navy, just about sank every one of them. Now I’m going to destroy a Chinese carrier.
“Maybe we should rethink this, sir,” the chief whispered.
“Ready torpedo tubes two and three,” Clemens said.
The chief blinked at him. There was fear in his eyes.
“Four degrees starboard and up fifty feet,” Clemens said. “I want us in firing range.”
“You can’t go up there, sir,” the chief whispered. “They’ll pinpoint us for sure.”
Clemens pointed at the image on the module. “Do it, Chief, or face a court martial when we dock.”
The chief’s head swayed back as if he’d been slapped. His blunt features turned crimson. He gave the needed orders, and then he went across the bridge, standing far away from Captain Clemens.
That suits me just fine. The chief needs to do something about his body odor.
For the next fifteen minutes, Clemens gave clipped orders. The Chinese had the advantage with their advanced tech and superior numbers. Well, he was going to change that. They’d taken out two American carriers with a dirty terrorist attack. He was going to hunt down the Chinese carriers and take them out one at a time. He was going to show the world what the American Silent Service was made of.
“There!” Clemens said, as he stared at the blips on his module. “Fire torpedoes two and three.”
Every gaze swiveled toward the chief.
“I’ve given my order,” said Clemens.
The chief nodded, and there was sweat on his crimson face.
The Minnesota shivered as the two Mk48 ADCAP Mod 7 torpedoes left the submarine’s tubes. Each torpedo was nineteen feet long and carried a six hundred and fifty pound warhead.
“Down fifty feet,” Clemens said, “and turn us around. We’re leaving the same way we came in.”
Using their swashplate piston engines, the torpedoes sped through the murky waters as Clemens watched the timer on his module. He waited, and he stopped breathing. The torpedoes used Otto fuel II, a monopropellant. The fuel decomposed into hot gas when ignited, adding to the warhead’s power. As Clemens thought about that, a mighty explosion sounded. It was a clear and violent sound, and it was many times louder than it should have been. The accompanying pressure-wave made the Minnesota groan in metallic protest.
“Depths charges!” one of the sonar-men shouted.
“They must be dropping them from a helicopter,” the chief said.
Clemens stared at the chief as the blood drained from his face. He hated helicopters. Unconsciously, he drew his comb.
“They’re dropping more!” the sonar-man shouted.
Clemens dropped his comb in surprise. As he bent to pick it up off the deck plates, the other depth charge exploded, and it ruptured the forward hull of the Virginia-class fast attack boat. The big submarine tilted and it shook worse than before as all around came more metallic groans.
“Emergency!” the chief shouted. He tripped as another depth charge exploded. The chief went down hard, hitting his head on a stanchion.
Before anyone could race to help the bleeding chief, before Captain Clemens could give a word of encouragement, a powerful explosion ruptured the hull. Freezing cold, dark water poured in at a frightening rate. It swept up crewmen and threw them against the bulkheads.
It was the end of the Minnesota, the end of Captain Clemens and his crew. None of them would ever know that they hadn’t been hunting a carrier, but one of the Chinese fuel tankers. Its size had fooled Clemens and his crew into thinking it was a supercarrier. This tanker had been waiting to unload its precious cargo. The needed diesel now began spreading across the gray waters of the Gulf of Alaska.
ARCTIC OCEAN
Paul Kavanagh slid across the pack ice on his skis. It was so bitterly cold that his bones ached. The howling wind blew against him, and it threw fine particles of snow across the eerie landscape. The flat terrain spread in all directions, an icy desert with an ocean underground.
There were different kinds of ridges and low formations. If a piece of ice slid over another, it was called rafted ice. The Algonquin had spoken to him some time ago about ice islands. Those came from glaciers, drifting in the summer and freezing into the pack ice later.
Paul didn’t care about any of it. He just skied. He moved into the freezing wind, determined to survive, to beat the Algonquin at the Indian’s own game. If he endured, he would see his son again. He had fantasies about making things right with Cheri. Those were the best thoughts. He’d escaped into his mind as he journeyed through the eternal darkness. Sometimes, the worst times, he would see Murphy again in his mind’s eye. He’d see the ex-Army Ranger peering at him through the cat’s window. It was those staring eyes, the ones that saw—
Paul shook his head. He didn’t want to see Murphy any more. He just needed to ski, to push the long runners over the ice, listening to their crunch and hiss.
The wind howled against him. It blew against his eyes and pierced the woolen fabric of his ski mask. It made his cheeks numb. His lips were cracked and bleeding. The shrieking wind hammered spikes into his brain, or it seemed to. He wanted a beer, warm beer, some Guinness. If he could sit in a bar by a fire and just sip beer for a month—that would be Paradise.
Instead, he was here, trying to reach Dead Horse, Alaska. Chinese had slaughtered the oilmen. Chinese Special Forces backpack-flyers had tried to add him to the list of the dead.
Paul shook his head again. He’d killed the killers. That was good. If he survived—Paul shook his head a third time, more stubbornly. When he survived, or at the end of this journey, he’d go to the oil company or maybe even to Blacksand headquarters and explain what he’d done. They might give him his back pay. Heck, they might reward him. Cheri and Mikey could use the reward money.
You’re not going to defeat me, Geronimo.
Thinking about the Algonquin, Paul looked up into the Arctic wind.
Ahead, John Red Cloud skied like an automaton, pulling the toboggan loaded with their supplies. The Algonquin didn’t have any quit in him. He’d put his head down into the wind and rhythmically poked the ice with the ends of his ski poles. The man refused to rest. He only stopped by his watch.
They huddled together then and climbed into sleeping bags. Red Cloud used the toboggan like a shield, laying it against him. When the watch’s alarm went off, the Algonquin refused to let Paul sleep in. Red Cloud climbed out of the bag, used a tiny sterno stove and heated coffee.
The hot coffee always felt good going down. It helped Paul climb out of his sleeping bag and ski another day toward Alaska.
Paul was tired now. The storm had howled in the morning—but he’d climbed out of the sleeping bag anyway. It still howled. The assault-gun-strap dug into his shoulder. The assault rifle was heavy, but there was no way he’d toss it. He had White Tigers to kill.
The more Paul thought about it, the less sense it made that Chinese Special Forces had attacked the platform. Was there an oil war going on that no one talked about?
He might have shrugged, but that would take too much energy. He was cold, tired and wanted to stop. One of his fears was that either the Algonquin or he would get sick. If he got sick, Paul knew the Algonquin would simply leave him behind as they’d left Murphy.
What if the Algonquin gets sick? Will I leave him behind?
Paul shivered. If the Indian died or sickened… Paul hated the idea of trekking across the ice by himself. Did Red Cloud feel the same way about him?
His thoughts clouded then. It took too much effort to think. He would survive. He would push himself no matter what happened. The hope of making things right with Cheri and seeing his son again, it was a spur. And he had a promise to Murphy.
Don’t think about him. Just don’t.
So Paul didn’t. He endured, and he followed John Red Cloud across the pack ice.
PRCN SUNG
Admiral Ling sat very still as he heard the news about the destroyed tanker.
“Did she unload first?” asked Ling.
“No, sir,” said Commodore Yen.
The two men were in the admiral’s ready room with its costly silk paintings on the walls. The room tilted back and forth as the big carrier rode out a storm. Even this deep in the ship, they heard the icy hail striking the monstrous warship.
“Do you hear that?” asked Ling. “The hail striking metal?”
The Commodore nodded.
Each of the aging men sat in a comfortable chair. The older sat behind an ornate teak desk. The younger and taller Commodore sat before it.
“Winter will come early to this region,” said Ling. “I’m beginning to think we’re cursed.”
Even though they were alone in the room, Commodore Yen glanced about nervously. Maybe with his VR monocle he saw more than others could. Maybe years of caution motivated him. “I ask that you be careful about what you say, sir. The walls have ears.”
Admiral Ling waved away the suggestion.
“I must hasten to add that the Chairman has declared us liberators,” said Yen. “We fight for the Eskimos and their freedom.”
“I’m too old for that nonsense,” Ling said, opening a drawer. He took out an old bottle of baijiu, clunking it onto his desk. After setting out two thick glasses, he poured a liberal splash into each. He handed one glass to Yen. The white liquor sloshed back and forth, as the room continued to tilt.
“The Vice-Admiral sulks,” Commodore Yen said, cradling his glass with both hands. “Your scolding a few days ago—”
“I didn’t scold him,” said Ling. “I berated the incompetent fool for losing the Seward depot. Now we’ve lost another of our fuel tankers to these cagey American submariners. We cannot lose more of these precious vessels or their cargos. Our fuel situation has become more than troublesome.”
“Please, sir, listen to me,” Yen said. “The Vice-Admiral has the Chairman’s ear. If he sulks, it means he is sending his uncle reports about you.”
Admiral Ling tossed the baijiu down his throat. It made the right half of his face twitch, which highlighted the left, dead half.
“The harder you berate the Vice-Admiral,” said Yen, “the harder the Chairman will likely come down on you for any…failures.”
For the first time, Ling looked shocked. “Do you think we will fail?”
“I think before we lost the latest tanker that our fuel situation was tight. Now it is much worse.”
“We have enough fuel for several weeks of combat,” said Ling. “That is long enough for us to reach and conquer Anchorage.”
“The Americans are fighting hard in Moose Pass. Maybe the others will learn to do likewise.”
“Do not expect anything from the Vice-Admiral’s men,” said Ling. “I know that I do not. It makes his blunders more tolerable.”
“Sir—”
Admiral Ling shook his head. Once he had Yen’s attention, he poured more baijiu for each of them. “I am unloading the Army vehicles.”
“The tanks?” asked Yen.
Admiral Ling nodded. “I will do more than unload them, but send them into battle.”
“The Army tanks guzzle fuel,”
Ling swirled the white liquor in his glass, regarding it. “We have a narrow window for victory. That is my belief. The Americans must know about our fuel shortage. Why otherwise destroy the storage facilities in Seward and trade their submarines for a tanker’s destruction?”
