Invasion: Alaska

by Vaughn Heppner

  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?

  After crunching over snow, they entered Klondike’s Rush. It was warm inside, with stools along a cedar bar with a zinc top, a mirror in back and rows of the familiar bottles.

  “Home,” Murphy said. He lurched onto a stool and pulled off his gloves. “Give me a whiskey!” he shouted. “And be ready to give me another.”

  Paul sat on a stool and glanced around. Except for the bartender, there were only three other people, a woman and two men. The woman had seen better years and she wore a deer-hunting hat. She also wore garish lipstick and purple eye shadow. One of the men with her had a beard and a scar running into his left eye. His narrow-faced friend had a blue parka with denim jeans.

  “Who are you?” the bearded man asked.

/>   Murphy grabbed the shot glass as the bartender, an older man, quit pouring. The ex-Army Ranger tossed it down as he swiveled around.

  “We’re Blacksand,” Murphy said, with an edge to his voice. “You got a problem with that?”

  The woman hunched her head as she turned toward the bearded man. He shrugged and went back to talking to her.

  “Didn’t think so,” Murphy said, swiveling back to the bar. “Another,” he said. “I told you to pour me two.”

  The bartender looked like he wanted to say something, but a glance into Murphy’s eyes changed the old man’s mind. “Yes, sir,” the bartender said.

  Murphy gave an ugly laugh, and he shot Paul a look. “Train them fast is what I say. Let them know right away whose boss. Then they know better than to give you crap.”

  The bearded man at the table glanced up, seemed to measure Murphy with his eyes and decided he didn’t want anything to do with him. The man turned his chair so the back was aimed at the bar.

  “Whiskey,” Murphy said, slapping his hand on the counter.

  Paul sipped his beer, watching Murphy. The beer tasted good. After that plane ride, he needed this. He was beginning to think, however, that he should stay far away from Murphy.

  The door to the bar opened and in walked the big master sergeant from the shed, the card-player with the crewcut. He had his partner with him. “Party’s over,” he said. “Red Cloud wants you two back. Told us to come fetch you.”

  Murphy tossed down another shot before swiveling around. “You go run to Red Cloud and tattle on us?”

  Paul took a swig of beer before standing and putting a ten on the bar. “Let’s go,” he told Murphy. It had been mistake coming, Paul could see that now.

  Murphy blinked at him in surprise. “You chicken?” he asked. “The bristle-top make you scared?”

  A flash of heat went through Paul. He’d never liked bullies or bigmouths. His dislike of such people had led to more than a few fistfights in high school, which had led to continuation school and finally, a few nights in jail. The last time, a judge had suggested the Marines. Paul had taken the bait. No one fought fair in jail anyway, and he’d gotten tired of fighting four or five against one. He now picked up his beer and took a last swig.

  “I took you for a fighter,” Murphy was saying.

  Paul shrugged. He’d had enough of the ex-Army Ranger. He began buttoning his coat.

  “You too, tough guy,” the master sergeant told Murphy.

  Murphy gave him the bird before turning back to the bar and grabbing a fistful of peanuts. “Whiskey!” he shouted.

  The bartender was at his spot at the far end of the bar. Maybe there was something about the master sergeant that kept the bartender where he was.

  “I said WHISKEY!” Murphy shouted.

  The master sergeant grumbled, nodded at his partner and purposely strode for Murphy. “You’re coming with us even if we have to haul you in.”

  Murphy surprised everyone. The ex-Army Ranger slid off the stool and hurled his shot glass all in one motion. It was a perfect throw, catching the master sergeant between the eyes. It dropped him as his head jerked back. The master sergeant collapsed like a hunk of jelly. His partner stopped, staring at his friend. Murphy kept moving. There was a crazy look in his eyes, and he kicked the partner’s left kneecap. The man’s leg buckled under him. The partner fell as he clutched his knee, and his groans were animal-like. Murphy was still moving. The ex-Ranger was like greased death. He produced a switchblade, clicking out the metal. Kneeling by the master sergeant, Murphy grabbed him by the throat of his coat.

  “I’m going to leave you a scar, tough guy.”

  Before the ex-Ranger could cut the master sergeant, Paul grabbed Murphy’s wrist. He’d crossed the distance between them, recognizing a killer. You didn’t talk a killer out of hurting others when his blood was hot. Murphy looked up. The ex-Ranger had craziness in his eyes, so Paul hit him in the face. Blood spurted from the nose and Murphy’s head snapped back. Paul twisted the wrist as he slapped the back of Murphy’s hand. The switchblade clattered onto the wooden floor.

  “You’re gonna die, beer-boy,” Murphy muttered.

  Paul hit him a second time, harder than before. It hurt his knuckles, it gashed them, and it smeared his fingers with the Ranger’s blood. That stunned Murphy long enough for Paul to haul back and hit with a haymaker. Murphy thumped onto the floor, the back of his head knocking against wood. He was unconscious, and blood poured from his nose.

  “Call Blacksand,” Paul told the bartender. The old man kept blinking at him. “Did you hear me?”

  The bartender reached for the phone.

  Rubbing his sore fingers, Paul sat on a stool, picking up his beer. He looked at the three men on the floor. The partner was weeping now, clutching his leg, as if it would run away if he let go.

  With a tired sigh, Paul sipped his beer, deciding he might as well finish it. This was looking to be a long night, or day. He still didn’t know what time it was.

  AMBARCHIK BASE, EAST SIBERIA

  In the darkness of the Arctic Circle, a Leopard Z-6 Hovertank slid across the tundra. Several kilometers away, the lights of Ambarchik glittered like a prized jewel. It was a lonely outpost, one of the most godforsaken towns in the world. It was at the northern edge of the Eurasian continent, nestled against the frozen East Siberian Sea. As an arctic tern flies, the Siberian side of the Bering Strait was twelve hundred kilometers away. The Russian city of Murmansk, which was near Finland, lay three thousand six hundred kilometers to the west. Three kilometers from Ambarchik was Ambarchik Base, the third largest Chinese military facility in East Siberia.

  The hovertank’s main weapon was a high-velocity 76mm cannon firing rocket-assisted shells. The cannon was self-loaded, while the hovertank’s crew of three drove the vehicle, manned the cannon and commanded. A 12.7mm machine gun in the commander’s copula provided anti-infantry support. The armor was a lightweight sandwich of ceramic/ultraluminum, with an explosive skin that helped retard shape-charged rounds. A bubble of bullet-resistant plastic over the commander’s hatch gave him some small-arms protection whenever he rode ‘heads-up.’ It also kept the hovertank’s heat from dissipating into the arctic night. Power came from a diesel Qang 2000 with a turbo ‘supercharger’ for cold-weather starts.

  The Americans had nothing like the Leopard Z-6. It moved swiftly onto the pack ice, showing its greatest asset: speed.

  Several kilometers later as it traveled north and farther onto the ice, the hovertank slowed and then stopped, rocking slightly as it maintained its position on its cushion of air. Slowly, the military vehicle sank as its armored skirt shuddered. It touched down as its hidden but powerful fans stopped.

  Moments passed until a side-hatch opened. A heavily-bundled and short General Shin Nung squeezed through. In his awkward snow boots, he used the ladder, climbing down to the ice. He wore a fur-lined hood like a Yakut native, the Siberian cousin to the Alaskan Eskimos. The general was fifty-nine years old and a hero of the Siberian War. His armored thrust had captured Yakutsk and effectively ended the conflict.

  General Nung was the commander of the coming cross-polar attack. His facial skin tingled in the cold. He had blunt features and an aggressive stare. In his youth, he had studied six long years at the Russian Military Academy in Moscow. It had been a lonely existence, and too many of the high command in China still thought of him as half-Russian. What made it worse was that he continually achieved success through his adherence to headlong attack. He had many enemies in high command, but the Chairman backed him. That was all the influence he needed.

  General Nung surveyed the polar landscape, the seeming featureless pack ice that spanned the ocean all the way to Alaska.

  Another man now squeezed through the hovertank’s hatch. He, too, wore arctic clothing and a hood, but was taller and much older than General Nung. He was Marshal Kao, and he was the Army Minister of the Ruling Committee, only recently arrived from Beijing. The stated
reason for his visit was to speak personally with the commanding general so he could give an eyewitness report to the Chairman on the taskforce’s readiness.

  The hovertank’s arc lights provided the only illumination here, as clouds hid the moon and stars.

  Old Marshal Kao shivered.

  That brought a contemptuous smile to General Nung’s lips. The arrogant mandarin needed to feel the cold he was sending them into. If he didn’t like the temperature, the old man should have covered his sculptured features. Nung turned away, no longer wanting to see the weakness there. Despite the marshal’s age, Kao had aesthetic features like some over-bred palace prince. Everyone knew he used botox injections to erase the lines in his face. Worse, he was known for his artistic leanings. Nung had seen some of Kao’s paintings before. He’d walked in the marshal’s house along with others. The disgusting memory still soiled him. He’d wanted to rip the paintings off the walls, open his fly and piss all over them in front of the others. Imagine, a military man dabbling with paints, with a little brush as he stroked here and touched there. It had been revolting.

  How can I reason with a painting marshal? It’s impossible. Yet, for the sake of my men, I must try.

  Nung breathed through his nose, feeling the cold tingle. He loved the challenge of this attack. If only these delicate types would let a military genius like him do what needed doing, he’d win Alaska for them. Boldness. Courage. Vigor. That is what won wars. That’s what had led him to capturing Yakutsk with a handful of tanks. At least the Chairman understood. Nung knew that he was uniquely qualified for the present task. He was the right man in the right place at the right time to achieve glory…for China as well as for himself.

  “It’s freezing,” said Kao.

  With his back to the Army Minister, Nung sneered.

  You should have stayed in Beijing with your paints. Don’t come out here in the cold if you don’t want to do a soldier’s job.

  “I have waited until now to inform you of another facet to your assault,” Kao said. “It is the reason I agreed to this trip onto the ice.”