Invasion: Alaska (10 page)

Finally, the Chairman straightened his pain-racked body. “We will finalize the preparations for an Alaskan assault,” he said in a dry voice. “Admiral, you will continue preparations for a naval exercise, adding naval infantry brigades for a mass assault against metropolitan Anchorage.”

“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Qingshan.

“You will also begin to implement your secret plan for crippling the American Navy,” the Chairman said. “In two weeks, no less than three, we must surprise the world with a bold snatching of Alaska.”

“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Qingshan.

“Marshal, you shall finalize preparations for this cross-polar raid. Use the trains, use air transport, but get those specialist units ready for an immediate assault across the ice.”

“What if the Navy fails in its assigned tasks, sir?” asked the marshal. “It might leave my men open on the north slope of the Alaskan coast.”

“You will plan for Navy success,” the Chairman said, “not for failure. But if you feel that you cannot perform this task, tell me at once so I may find a general who can.”

“The Army will not fail you, sir,” the marshal said.

A grim smile stretched the Chairman’s face, showing the wrinkles there and the spottiness of his skin. He was diseased, but he seemed more invigorated than he had been for a long time.

A conqueror only truly loves conquering
. Jian’s profilers had guessed right, and he was gaining a new lease on life. It was strange but heady to think he had brought about a war with America through his words. His words were a lever that were about to move the world. That was power, and it felt good, very good.

“Our Minister of Agriculture has seen farther than the rest of you,” the Chairman said. “We will not repeat the failure that faced Cheng Ho. This time, the Chinese will rise above every nation on Earth and stamp the world with its superior civilization. First, however, we must survive this new glacial period and gain for our people a secure food supply.
Are there any here who disagree with our plan?
”

Those last words were famous. According to legend they’d been spoken a week before the Siberian Invasion. Also, according to a much-whispered story, a minister had spoken up then, urging caution. As if delighted, the Chairman had thanked the minister for the courage to speak his mind. He had asked the minister to step outside with him so the man could tell him his worries in private. The two had left the room and they had left the other ministers and generals. Seconds later, a shot had rung out. The Chairman returned alone, with a smoking pistol in his hand.

Today, no one spoke up against the finalized plan, not even Deng.

“Then I declare the meeting over,” the Chairman said. “Everyone is dismissed. Ah, except for you, Jian Shihong. I wish to speak with you alone. I would know more how you envision this battle to proceed.”

Jian’s heart beat faster. He had intrigued and plotted to survive Deng’s personal attack. Might he have stumbled onto the key to the highest position? Was the Chairman going to name him as his successor? Winning the war against America could possibly give him everything, while losing it—no, he mustn’t think about that. China would win. For his sake, it had too.

-4-

Placement

ALASKA

The small plane shuddered as metal groaned. All around Paul Kavanagh, men swore and gripped their armrests tightly. Outside, the wind howled like a legion of arctic demons. Each change in pitch sent the plane lurching in a different direction. There were eight new Blacksand employees in the plane’s passenger seats.

From the rearmost one, Paul stared out of a tiny window. It was dark outside expect for the particles of white that beat against the glass. He couldn’t see the stars. He couldn’t see the ground. He couldn’t see crap and that was starting to make him hate this place. It was ten times worse here than northern Quebec. The Canadian Shield had been a rocky wasteland of snow, pines and the most ancient stones in the world. There had never been storms like this during his combat against the French-Canadian separatists.

According to what the Blacksand rep had told the eight of them before boarding in Anchorage, the plane was likely north of the tree line by now. Beyond the tree line was the tundra, a land of ice, snow and blizzards worse than any Saharan sandstorm.

Another gust howled around their puny craft. The plane lurched upward as metal groaned. It felt as if a giant twisted the tubular main section, trying to pry it apart and spill them like ants onto the snow below. Just how far below the snow actually was, Paul had no idea, and that troubled him.

A speaker crackled into life several feet away, and the pilot spoke. At least, Paul figured it was the pilot. The man was hidden behind a curtain up front, a curtain that swayed far too much. Paul heard garbled words from the speaker. He had no idea what the pilot was trying to tell them. There was no way he was going to unbuckle to crawl closer to find out, either. Therefore, he was glad when the speaker quit broadcasting its gibberish.

A new wind shoved them sideways so the plane seemed to skip like a stone flung across a pond. Paul might have heard a moan. It was hard to hear anything but the roaring engines and wind. Then the man across the nearly nonexistent aisle was bent over, his forehead shoved against the back of the seat before him. The man spewed onto his black combat boots. The grim odor caused Paul’s stomach to lurch.

As the man wiped his lips, he glanced over. Paul remembered that his name was Murphy. The man was squat, with dark, curly hair and the whitest face Paul had ever seen. There were beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. Murphy was an ex-Army Ranger and had bragged earlier about his sniper skills. He’d said something about hoping to bag seals the way Eskimos used to do it with harpoons. According to Murphy, now the Eskimos or Inuit used rifles to take headshots. They had to make sure they killed the seal with a single shot. The marine mammals slept by their air holes, and if you only wounded the beast, it slid into the hole and out of sight.

Paul wondered how many seals lived near the oilrig where they were headed. Were they like sea lions in Monterey, California, the kind that never stopped barking? He remembered his honeymoon in Monterey and eating out at night on the Old Fisherman’s Wharf. Cheri had commented several times on the barking sea lions.

The treacherous wind shifted yet again, shoving the plane down. Paul’s gut lurched as they dropped into a freefell. For a sickening instant, he couldn’t hear the engines. Is this what it felt like to space-walk, to float in zero gravity? Then the engines roared once more. It was a tortured sound, but welcome nonetheless. The plane quit falling, and it pitched forward, buffeted one way and then another.

In the plane’s flickering cabin light, Paul saw moisture in Murphy’s eyes.

“We’ll make it!” Paul shouted into Murphy’s ear. You could hardly call it an aisle between them. It had been hard for both of them squeezing into their seats. Paul could barely hear his own words and wondered if Murphy had heard him. He clapped Murphy on the shoulder, squeezing, trying to impart hope into the man. Paul felt iron-hard muscles. He wondered why Murphy had left the Army Rangers. Was he another hard case? Were they all losers in this plane, each in his separate way?

Shaking his head, Paul vowed that this time he was going to win. This time he’d keep his job. He’d excel and send Mikey…and Cheri the money they needed.

The speaker crackled into life again, and the pilot spoke more of his gibberish. Paul would have liked to know what the man was saying.

Instead of unbuckling to find out, Paul hunched his head and watched the white particles appear out of the darkness and beat against the window. For all he could see, this might as well have been some alien planet. He hoped the pilot had radar and could talk to someone to guide them to a safe landing.

***

Two-and-a-quarter hours later, the plane skidded across a runway in Dead Horse. The place was the last inhabited spot before the vast ocean of ice. It was the nearest
town
to Prudhoe Bay.

Several years ago, the Prudhoe Bay oilfields had been given a new lease on life. The science of extracting oil had continued to advance. New, deeper oilfields had been discovered here, dwarfing the existing fields and expanding Alaska’s importance. Combined with the recently built derricks in ANWR, this northern slope region had become one of the most concentrated oil-producing sites in the world.

The plane finally came to a stop and two snowmobiles raced to them. Soon, a hatch opened and the men scaled down the ladder to the snow. In the swirling particles, there was shouting and pointing. Then two heavily-bundled men guided the spent Blacksand personnel to a nearby shed.

The storm had passed although snow continued to fall. Most of Dead Horse had been constructed out of prefabricated buildings, an island of light in the Arctic darkness.

Paul was the last to get indoors. His cheeks and nose were cold. When the door slammed shut, he pulled off his gloves and wiped ice from his eyebrows.

Two heaters glowed beside snowmobiles and snow-blowing equipment. Folding chairs had been set up, with narrow pallets and sleeping bags beside them. Some of the new Blacksand personnel slumped like dead men on the sleeping bags.

Paul and several others moved to one of the heaters. A folding table had been set up with candy bars and hot chocolate.

The door opened letting snow blow inside. A short man stepped in, shut the door and unwound a scarf from his face. He had leathery features, wore a woolen hat and looked like an Indian, an unsmiling warrior with the darkest eyes Paul had ever seen. He told them his name was John Red Cloud.

“You men will sleep here,” Red Cloud said. He had an odd accent that Paul couldn’t place. He guessed the Indian to be another Blacksand agent.

Red Cloud pulled back the edge of his parka sleeve and glanced at a watch. “You’re leaving in five hours. Walk around in here if you feel like stretching, eat some bars, play cards or sleep. I suggest you sleep.”

“How about some whiskey?” Murphy asked.

Paul thought he saw a speck of barf still around Murphy’s lips.

Red Cloud solemnly shook his head. “No alcohol.”

“Where’s the nearest bar?” Murphy asked.

Red Cloud frowned. He looked tough man, someone you wouldn’t want to make angry. “The ride out to the rig will be rough enough without drunks puking on the plane. You walk around in here, eat some candy or sleep. You look like you need to sleep.”

Murphy was pale and his hands still shook as if from withdrawal. He glanced at the candy and snatched a chocolate bar, grumbling to himself as he tore it open.

“Stay put,” Red Cloud said.

“Where are
you
going?” Murphy asked.

“You’re in Blacksand now,” Red Cloud said, beginning to sound annoyed. “That means you obey orders. If you can’t do that, we’ll fine you and make you pay the bill for your plane ride. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Murphy muttered, and he took another bite of his bar.

Red Cloud studied them coolly, and he shook his head. Then he wound the scarf back around his face. He hurried out, slamming the door behind him.

“Little bastard,” Murphy muttered. “All I need is a couple of shots of whiskey and I’d feel fine.”

Paul grabbed a packet of chocolate-covered peanuts. He popped them into his mouth one at a time. After he was finished, he was thirsty for something other than melted snow.

“I need several shots,” Murphy declared.

Two men sat by a different heater, playing blackjack. The others lay on the sleeping bags, one of them already snoring.

“You feel like a shot?” Murphy asked Paul.

“I could use a beer,” Paul admitted.

“Let’s go find a bar,” Murphy said.

“Didn’t you hear the man?” asked one of the card-players.

“What?” Murphy asked. “You miss your grandma already?”

“Sure,” the card-player said. “You want to dig your own grave, there’s a bar about four hundred yards to the north.” He glanced at his companion and shook his head.

“You coming?” Murphy asked Paul.

Paul hesitated. Murphy was obviously a troublemaker, but Paul needed a beer. Did they have beer out at the oilrig? It would be a shame if they didn’t, especially if he gave up this last chance to have one here.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Paul said.

“You’re smart guys,” the card-player said. He’d just won the round and was re-shuffling the cards. He was a big man with a crewcut and had the feel of a master sergeant.

Murphy scowled, and it looked like he wanted to start something. Paul recalled when they’d first been in the airport at Anchorage. Murphy had beeped every time through security. It turned out he had a metal plate in his head. He had been somewhere bad once and had been captured by Arabs. They’d held him for almost a year, abusing him in a cave. Maybe that’s why he was crazy.

Paul slapped Murphy on the arm and pointed at the door as he headed toward it. He began buttoning his coat.

When Paul opened the door, Murphy swore behind him. It was cold and snow fell out of the darkness. Paul saw lights to the north. Four hundred yards wasn’t that far. He’d drink his beer and hurry back. How much trouble could that cause?