Invasion: Alaska (23 page)

“No.”

“What’s wrong? I can hear by your voice that something is.”

Paul shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I’m going to give you my account number. There isn’t much left in it, maybe five hundred bucks now.”

“You got fired,” she said, sounding dispirited.

“My boss is an Algonquin warrior.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“I’m trying to tell you. Algonquin—Red Cloud fought in Quebec, in the Canadian Shield. Algonquin is an Indian name,” he said, “a tribal name. They fought with the French-Canadian separatists. I remember going up against some Algonquin soldiers during the war. They were sneaky in the woods. I remember they trapped Joe and we had to fight our way out.”

“You fought against the French Indians?” Cheri asked.

“Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

“So your boss is an Indian, too?”

“One that hates U.S. Marines.”

“He fired you?”

“Technically, not yet, but he will soon.”

“He can’t just fire you because you’re a Marine, or were a Marine.”

“You’d be surprised what these guys can do. Anyway, that’s not important right now. I’m going to give you my account number. I want you to empty it and use the money.”

“…I don’t know,” Cheri said.

“Do you have a paper and pen?”

“Okay,” she said. “Just a minute.”

“Sure,” Paul said, hearing her set the phone on a counter. He tried to picture his ex. What time was it over there?

He heard a click and then the line went dead.

“Hello?” Paul asked. Nothing—the line was pure dead. “Stupid phone,” he said, punching in the numbers again. He listened, but it was still dead. “What the heck?” he said. Then he saw the bars on his cell—or the lack of them.

Paul’s features tightened. Someone had just taken the relay cube offline. Now Cheri would think he’d hung up on her.

“That’s it,” Paul said. It was the final straw.

He thrust the cell into his parka, shoved his hand back into the thick glove and picked up his M14. He slung the leather strap over his shoulder and started marching for the base. It was time for a real showdown with Red Cloud. The Algonquin wasn’t going to fire him and the French Indian
was
going to pay him full wages. If Paul had to shove a gun in Red Cloud’s belly to do it, he was going to persuade the Algonquin the hard way. Whatever it took.

“Firing me is discrimination,” Paul said aloud. Cheri was right. Red Cloud couldn’t fire him just because he’d been in the Marines. That was total B.S.

Paul marched back toward the base. After taking perhaps three hundred steps, he heard crackling sounds in the distance. Before he was aware of it, Paul thudded onto the ice on his belly, with the M14 in his hands. He stared wide-eyed at the derricks. The nearest one had a flashing red light that winked on and off, reminding him of an airplane warning light.

That sound: it had been small-arms machinegun fire. There was a machinegun on the Algonquin’s wall. Was Red Cloud out test-firing it?

Paul cocked his head as he heard the sound again. It wasn’t just one man firing a machinegun. It sounded as if an entire squad was opening up—killing.

Terrorists
, Paul thought.

Adrenalin pumped through him. He found himself clutching his rifle and staring through the darkness at the frozen oilrig.

“Think,” he hissed at himself.

How did the terrorists get out here? Okay, there were three ways. They walked. They flew or they swam under the ice. The last way meant a submarine.

So it was Iran
. “Wait, wait,” he whispered to himself.

Terrorists could have bought a plane, a smaller one, or several such planes. They could have landed several miles away and marched to the base. Yeah, that made a lot more sense than coming in by submarine.

Paul scrambled to his feet and began jogging toward the base. The cold air hit his lungs almost right away. It reminded him of Quebec. Hard memories and harder-learned lessons began surfacing. There were enemy combatants out there. It made his flesh tingle with the fear and adrenalin that always hit just before he knew he was going into a firefight.

Paul chambered a round. He had the one magazine in his rifle and two more in his pocket.

Dirty terrorists, killing oilmen trying to make a living for their families. Paul wondered briefly if this was Greenpeace. Some of the environmental people could get pretty worked up about these things. They might have more expertise than al-Qaeda terrorists.

Paul heard shouts then and heavier machinegun fire. It sounded like the enemy had set-up kill zones.

Are they shooting everyone?

Skidding to a stop, Paul panted as cold mist steamed out of his mouth. He’d better start thinking. If the terrorists had infrared goggles, he would be exposed as he ran straight into the base.

I can’t crawl all the way there
.

He shook his head. He doubted they would expect anyone out on the ice so far away. If they had infrared sight, they’d check several times and find it clear. Later, he’d surprise them.

The drifting shouts and the heavy machinegun fire—Paul lowered his head and began running. Half-pay or full, he was here and the enemy was killing good guys, the ones he’d been hired to protect.

I have an M14. Now it’s time to use it
.

Twenty minutes later, Paul was stretched behind a pressure ridge, a mound of ice. He peered over it, with his rifle propped against the ice. The M14 had its uses. It was the last American battle rifle, meaning the last that fired full-power rifle ammunition. In this case, that was .308 Winchester. The rifle had a twenty-round detachable box magazine, and altogether weighed about twelve pounds. It had good accuracy at long-range, that range being eight hundred and seventy-five yards with optics. Paul used the selector switch and chose single-shot fire.

In the darkness of an Arctic night, the oilrig looked deserted. Then he saw a trio of men exit one of the buildings. In their parkas and heavy pants, they looked like stuffed dolls. Something seemed different about them, strange.

Using his teeth, Paul pulled off a glove. Carefully, he took off the caps to both ends of his Aimpoint 3000 red-dot scope. There was a special oil-film over each lens, which was supposed to keep them from fogging. Holding his breath, Paul edged his eye to his end of the Aimpoint 3000.

The roly-poly men leaped into view. Some of the base’s lights had been shot out, but not all. Using the illumination, Paul saw what was different. It was the hats. They were fur, but didn’t cover the ears. On the front of each fur hat was a single star.

Blacksand didn’t use a star on their hats, nor did the oilmen.

Paul studied the three men. They looked Asian. Maybe they were Chinese or Korean. Either way, that meant Greater China. As that hit him, Paul rolled onto his back and slid fully behind the pressure ridge. Staring up at the stars, he tried to think this through. Why would Chinese soldiers kill oilmen? How did the soldiers get here?

“Does it matter?” he whispered. The fact they were here was important, not how or even why.

Slowly, Paul rolled back onto his belly and propped the M14 on the pressure ridge. He studied the three soldiers. They carried QBZ-23s.
Qing Buqiang Zidong
.

Paul read gun magazines, and he’d read about the QBZ-23 before. It had been designed from the QBZ-95, first made in 1995. The QBZ-23 had been developed in 2023. Each assault rifle had a bullpup configuration. The weapon’s action and curved magazine were located behind the grip and trigger assembly. The magazine held forty 5.8 x 42mm DBP24, which meant Standard Rifle Cartridge 2024. Older-style bullets used an eject-able cartridge case. The DBP24 was embedded in a solid cake of propellant, which was consumed once the bullet was fired. Case-less ammo lowered bulk and weight, and it increased the number of rounds per magazine.

Paul began scanning the camp. He saw dead men lying on the ice. There were oilmen and some Blacksand guards. There by the nearest derrick, different Asians were attaching something to the metal. If he were going to bet, he’d call it explosives.

Paul turned his head away from the scope and blew the hottest breath he could muster against his fingers. He had several options. Go in and try to surrender. The dead men on the snow made it seem like a bad idea. If these were Chinese or Korean soldiers or Special Forces, would they bother taking him prisoner? He doubted it. So how was he supposed to get home?

Paul Kavanagh laughed to himself. He wasn’t getting home. Whom was he fooling? He’d taken a one-way ticket to the North Pole, or nearer to it then he was ever going to get in his lifetime. Yeah, he’d been screwed many times, but this was the worst screwing of them all.

“Are you just going to take it?” he asked himself.
Heck no. You’re going to fight and take down as many as those creeps as you can
. Besides, they had cut his connection to Cheri. She needed the money and now she’d never get it.

“Say your prayers, boys,” he whispered. As he squeezed the trigger, Paul didn’t know it, but he was grinning fiercely.

The rifle boomed and kicked him hard in the shoulder. It was a relic, but the M14 was powerful and it was the right kind of weapon for what needed doing now.

One of the three roly-poly soldiers trudging to the derrick where the demolition men worked fell down hard. He had a hole in his back, one between his shoulder blades. Paul saw it all in his scope. Swiveling the M14 slightly, he fired again. Another Chinese soldier hit the ice. The last one spun around, dropped to one knee and lifted his assault rifle. It had a fancy scope, fancy enough that Paul suspected it had infrared capability. A three-bullet burst ripped in the night from the QBZ-23. It told Paul he was dealing with a professional. Most surprised men would have fired the entire magazine all at once. That soldier had been carefully taught fire control.

As the three bullets ripped out of the assault rifle, Paul saw flames erupt from the barrel. He fired, but missed. Finally, the enemy combatant had the wits to drop onto his belly. The Chinese or Korean soldier with the star on his fur hat put the fancy scope to his eye. He began sweeping his rifle, no doubt looking for the shooter. Holding his breath, Paul squeezed the trigger. It was the best shot of the night, a hole in the man’s face, making him relax dead on the ice.

Ducking behind the pressure ridge, Paul crawled like mad to a new location. There was no telling how many of the enemy were out there and there was no telling what kind of weaponry they had. A heavy machinegun would make quick work of him, pressure ridge or no.

Five shots in rapid succession sounded. Paul thrust himself flat on the ice. He hadn’t heard any hits nearby. He hated this waiting, this not knowing.

With an oath, he threw himself at the ridge, putting his rifle on it. Using the scope, he scanned the base.

The shots—he saw a man kneeling by two Chinese soldiers. They were near the derrick, the one the two-man team had been strapping demolitions to. The man had a big gun in his hand. This man lacked the fur hat without earflaps. He had a woolen hat, the kind everyone at the oilrig used. With a shock, Paul recognized Red Cloud. The Algonquin had killed the two demo-men.

Using the Aimpoint 3000, Paul scanned the camp. He saw two more roly-poly soldiers crawling toward Red Cloud. Taking quick aim, Paul fired, missed, and fired the rest of the magazine, killing one while the other leaped up and ran like mad out of sight.

As Paul shoved in another magazine, he heard three shots. They were the same kind of shots he’d heard before. Several seconds later, Red Cloud appeared from behind a hut. The Algonquin aimed his gun at the stars and fired twice. Then he cupped his hands, shouting.

Paul barely heard the words: “Hurry in, Kavanagh! We have to leave before the others come back.”

-8-

Decisions

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Anna Chen sat alone in a large room in the White House basement. The room contained a massive table and big, cushioned chairs. There were old-style books on a shelf, and a wall computer-scroll on mute. On the scroll, it showed Susan Salisbury’s earnest features as she explained something to the audience.

Was it possible to stop the coming war? Anna couldn’t see how. It still shocked her to see the two wrecked carriers. The Chairman was deadly serious, and war with the most populous and richest country on Earth was about to begin.

A pair of double doors opened abruptly. Three men strode in. The first was Colin Green. The second was the President of the United States, a tallish, good-looking man with gray along his sides. He seemed like a movie actor to Anna. The third was a large, overweight man with wisps of messy hair scattered over his otherwise bald head. He was the Secretary of State and wore a rumbled suit.

The Secretary of State halted, and he glanced at Green. “Is this another sexual harassment case among your staff?”

“No, nothing of the kind,” said Green. “Please forgive him the rude joke,” he told Anna.

She nodded guardedly.

Colin Green introduced Anna, telling the others she had a PhD in Chinese Studies and that she’d written
Socialist-Nationalist China
.