Invasion: Alaska (47 page)

“Are those for us?” asked Paul.

“The fewer questions you ask,” said the master sergeant, “the better it will be for you.”

“Is that a fact?” Paul said.

Several of the Special Forces guards raised their assault guns a trifle higher as they eyed Paul with greater hostility.

The master sergeant nodded. He was about Paul’s size. “You don’t like that. I can understand. The truth is you did good, as good as any of us could have done.”

“I’m Marine Recon and I did better than any of you could have done.”

“You’re
ex
-Marine Recon,” the master sergeant said. “They discharged you and I can see why. We checked your files, but we believe you two anyway.”

“Wonderful,” Paul said. “Now if those snowmobiles aren’t for us and you’re not giving us a ride back, why are you here?”

“To hear your story,” the master sergeant said.

“That’s it, huh?” asked Paul. “Ask us for intel and then leave us stranded out here?”

“Don’t be bitter, pal. There’s a war on and we’re getting our butts kicked. So we’re starting to play hardball again.” The master sergeant unhooked a walkie-talkie, handing it to Paul. “Use this after we’re gone, say—” the man checked his watch. “In thirty minutes. There’s a bush plane on the way for you. They’ll pick you up and take you back to Dead Horse. But be warned, the people in Dead Horse will want you to help them fight.”

“That suits me,” Paul said. “I have some payback coming for the White Tigers.”

“I thought it might be like that. You two did good, both of you. Now we’re going to give these Chinese a bloody nose—thanks to you. Sorry if I have to do it this way, but I have my orders.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “And good luck to whatever it is you guys are doing.”

“You’ve given us our first bearing on them. They’ve used and keep using some fancy EW on us and some hard-to-spot planes. Now we’re going to teach them we Americans play for keeps.” The master sergeant leaned near, whispering, “Don’t look back no matter what you hear. You might even want to cover your eyes then.”

“You aren’t talking nuclear, are you?” asked Paul.

“
We’re
not, but I hear somebody is.” The master sergeant brushed his nose. “If I were you, I’d get out of here fast.”

Paul nodded. “Maybe we’ll start heading south now then.”

The master sergeant eyed him and Red Cloud. “I’m supposed to detain you until the sub is ready to dive, but you two have been through enough. Go on, start walking.”

Semper Fi,” Paul said, holding out his hand.

“Same to you, Marine,” the master sergeant said, shaking hands. He had a strong grip. Then he shook Red Cloud’s hand. “If I were you two, I’d hurry.”

Paul and Red Cloud took his advice, stumping to their skis, hooking them back to their boots. The master sergeant waved as they skied away. His men waved. Paul and Red Cloud waved back. Then the two of them concentrated on putting as much distance between the others as they could.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“That’s the full extent of what we have, sir,” General Alan told the President.

Anna Chen sat underground in White House Bunker Number Five. This was an emergency session. Everyone sitting at the circular conference table looked worn and tired. Some were groggy.

Everyday there was more bad news. The President took it the hardest. His shoulders had slumped and the bags around his eyes had become discolored. Whenever U.S. resistance grew toughest along the Number One Highway, the Chinese called for the tri-turreted tanks. The T-66s always smashed through or chased away the defenders, and the Chinese advance continued. General Alan had explained how enemy minesweepers were busy at work in Cook Inlet. Once the Chinese Navy cleared the inlet and took Anchorage, then South Central Alaska was lost. Once South Central Alaska was lost, the State was as good as gone. The consensus in the chamber was that Anchorage’s fate would decide the war.

“We need a decision, sir,” General Alan said.

The President compressed his lips.

Anna’s heart went out to Clark. The conflict had aged him. This decision…it was likely the hardest of his life.

General Alan had just explained that if the U.S. military could save Alaska, America could still lose the oil war. The fate of the North Slope oilfields was critical to the national economy. It was the lifeblood giving America time as they switched to heavy coal use and various forms of solar-power. The general had been telling them about the Chinese threatening to attack the oilfields with their ice-mobile formations.

“We have too few men on the ground in and around the North Slope to win any fight,” General Alan now added. “I’m amazed and surprised at their feat. The Chinese have moved tanks and hovers almost all the way across the polar ice.”

“What about air?” the President asked.

“They’ve used special air-transports,” General Alan said.

“I mean our air,” the President said. “Let us hit them with air strikes.”

Thin General Alan shook his head. “The constant air battles over the Kenai Front have decimated our Air Force, sir. The Chinese have better planes, missiles and electronics, but we have some tough pilots willing to dogfight with them. That means losses. You know how the Air Force generals kept begging for more reinforcements. Then Sims demands more air cover. As the Chinese gained air superiority in south Alaska, they hunted down our supply columns. Do you remember giving your okay, sir, for the transfer of winterized fighters from the North Slope to Anchorage?”

President Clark wearily shook his head.

“We’ve stripped the North Front, sir,” General Alan said. “We hardly have anything left near the Prudhoe Bay oilfields or ANWR.”

The President looked stricken.

Maybe it compelled General Alan to add, “Because of that, sir, we haven’t completely lost the air war on the Southern Front. Our pilots are tough, and as long as they have planes to fly, they’re willing to engage the enemy.”

The President bent at the waist as he put his hands on the table and rested his forehead on his hands. The moment lasted several seconds. Abruptly, he sat up and glanced at Anna.

“You know the Chairman better than anyone else,” Clark said. “What do you think his response will be?”

Anna blinked in amazement as she realized what he asked her. The President of the United States was passing the decision to her. If she told Clark the Chairman would go nuclear, the President would decide against the Navy plan. In that moment, Anna felt a tremendous weight settle onto her heart. It was galling. She found it difficult to breathe. She had an inkling then what it meant being the President at a time like this.

Anna felt the eyes on her. Everyone waited on her words. In a strange way, it reminded her of long ago in the Teenage Beauty Pageant. Then everyone had watched and weighed her. Anna Chen frowned, concentrating. She wanted a sip of water, but she was afraid to reach for it. She didn’t want to see her hand tremble. She didn’t want anyone else to see that.

Anna looked at President Clark. “Sir,” she said, “this situation seems different from the previous discussion to use nuclear weapons. This time our military would do it away from prying eyes and in a hidden manner. And you’re leaving the Chairman his primary military forces. For him, that might make all the difference.”

Clark’s mouth moved, but no words came.

“Do you understand what you’re saying?” asked the Secretary of State.

Anna nodded. She knew. They were talking about using one nuclear weapon to hit the Chinese now on the pack ice and scare them. Afterward, the Joint Chiefs would use a different plan to hinder the Arctic Chinese.

The President licked his lips. “This strike won’t unleash a nuclear holocaust?”

“I’m not a military expert,” Anna said. “I’m only considering the Chairman’s psychology. The critical factor as far I can see is that the attack is hidden from the world’s eyes. More than anything else, the Chairman abhors public humiliation. As I said before, this leaves the Chairman’s military units intact. He has an inordinate attachment to the military and hates high Chinese losses. He believes such losses confirm old stereotypes concerning China. What you’re planning in the Arctic, it seems to me it prevents the Chairman from achieving his goal. But without doing it in a single devastating attack that obliterates all Chinese polar forces. It allows the Chairman to retreat and therefore he is not pushed into a corner where he feels he must hit back tit-for-tat.”

The President stared at her. He nodded then, and he turned to General Alan. “Tell them yes, I approve of the plan.”

ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul turned and lightly punched Red Cloud on the shoulder. “Can you believe it?”

Red Cloud shook his head.

A plane taxied down the ice toward them. Its propeller twirled and the engine idled. Finally, the small bush plane came to a stop on the ice, its lights bright in the polar darkness.

Red Cloud unhooked the harness from his shoulders, leaving the toboggan where it lay. Paul shook off his backpack, listening to it thump on the ice. Then he kicked off his skis and ran toward the plane. Both men kept their assault rifles.

Paul beat Red Cloud to the bush plane. He ducked under the wing, yanked open the door and shouted, “You Pilot Pete?”

“That’s me, mate,” a small bearded man said. He wore heavy clothing as heat billowed out of the cramped interior.

Paul slid off his assault rifle and stowed in within. Next, he shoved in the Chinese radio. Then he hoisted himself up and slid toward the back. Red Cloud followed his example and soon slammed the door shut. The Algonquin sat up front with the pilot.

“I know you,” Pete told Red Cloud.

The Algonquin nodded.

“So it’s really true?” asked Pete. “The Chinese murdered everyone at Platform P-53?”

“It is true,” Red Cloud said in a grave voice.

“Let’s get out of here!” Paul shouted from the back. “I think the Navy is about to trigger a nuke against the Chinese.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” shouted Pete.

“Go, go,” Paul said, “and don’t look back. In fact, if it looks like the sun is coming up or starting to shine, it means the Navy ignited a nuke.”

“He is right,” Red Cloud said. “We must hurry.”

Pete turned to his joystick. “Hang on.” He pushed the stick forward as the engine began to roar.

Paul sat back in his seat. This felt glorious. He had a heavy growth of beard and mustache, and it had been a long time since he’d felt anything but the warmth of his own breath held under a sleeping bag. Now warmth flooded the cramped cabin. He settled back and enjoyed the thrill of the bush plane bumping over the ice. He looked outside, amazed at how fast they were going.

There was an extra roar of noise, and the bush plane lifted. Paul let out a war whoop. It caused Pete to jerk around.

“Don’t do that,” Pete said. “It freaks me out.”

“Sorry,” Paul said. “You just have no idea how I feel.”

“I sure do. I’ve been lost before in the wilds. Yep, it’s good to get back to civilization. Right now, this plane is civilization to you.”

Paul nodded, and his eyelids grew heavy. It felt so good just to relax. He was going home. He’d see Cheri and Mikey again. He could hardly believe it. As he thought these beautiful things, the bush plane continued to climb into the night sky.

USS
ATLANTA

The USS
Atlanta
was a
Los Angles
-class nuclear attack submarine. It had waited in the ice as the two Blacksand mercenaries skied away. The submarine waited as the Special Forces team had roared away on the snowmobiles.

That had been many hours ago. Now finally, a signal arrived from Dead Horse. It had traveled all the way from the White House. The captain was asleep in his bunk when the chief knocked on wood paneling.

“I’m up, Chief,” the captain said from his bunk.

Without disturbing the curtain guarding the captain’s privacy, the chief relayed the radio message.

Soon, the captain swept the curtain aside. He wore his officer’s hat and he had buttoned on his uniform. Solemnly, he strode to his place near the periscope. Per his orders, the USS
Atlanta
eased out of the pack ice and sank into the frigid waters. The submarine headed onto a new bearing.

“Prepare the torpedo,” the captain said.

The members of the bridge crew stared at him.

“This is not a drill,” the captain said quietly.

That began a flurry of motion aboard the USS
Atlanta
. Sixteen minutes and thirty-two seconds later, a blast of air expelled the nuclear-tipped torpedo from its tube. Then the electric motor engaged. The big torpedo headed toward a precise heading under the ice.

“Turn her around, Chief,” the captain said, “and take us down. We don’t want to be anywhere near here once it goes off.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief said, an old man and gray-haired. In a hollow voice, he gave the needed orders.

All the while, the nuclear-tipped torpedo headed toward its preset coordinates. Those were the same coordinates as the forward Chinese supply dump. Destiny awaited their meeting.