Invasion: Alaska

by Vaughn Heppner

  General Nung turned around, facing the taller man and the hovertank.

  “The Chairman fears some of the men may lose heart as they cross thousands of kilometers of ice to Alaska,” Kao said.

  “My men?” asked Nung, sounding genuinely surprised. He’d been training them for months in Arctic warfare.

  Marshal Kao affected a one-sided smile. It was said he practiced his mannerisms before a mirror several hours a day.

  “During the assault you cannot be everywhere at once, General. Besides, the Chairman doesn’t want you shooting personnel when you’ll possibly need everyone in the taskforce to complete your mission.”

  Nung bristled at the insult. He knew the painter considered himself more cultured and therefore more Chinese and superior to him. Didn’t the old man realize that they were out on the pack ice? The tankers in the hover were some of his most loyal men. The desire to break this mandarin with his bare hands…. Nung could see himself chopping a hole in the ice and sliding the marshal’s corpse into the freezing waters. He’d heard that’s what a Russian noble had once done to Rasputin, a strange political creature in the czar’s household during World War One. After putting Kao into Arctic storage, he would concoct a story how the minister had strolled over treacherous ice. That would shock those in high command.

  “Commissar Yongzheng with ten operatives from East Lightning will join your taskforce,” Kao said.

  “What?” Nung whispered. His fantasies dissolved as anger took over.

  “The Chairman believes that morale is all important in war. The soldier whose heart remains strongest will always be the victor.”

  “Does the Chairman doubt my heart?” asked Nung.

  The older man stared at him, as if he had not heard the question.

  “What is the meaning of sending Yongzheng and his killers with me?” Nung asked.

  “The Police Minister suggested the move and the Chairman agreed.”

  Blood rushed to Nung’s face. He swayed, and he flexed his gloved fingers. “Why taint an Army mission with policemen?”

  “Yes, it seems unnatural. It almost seems…Russian,” Kao said. “Ah, you maintain your silence. How Chinese of you, General.”

  Nung’s head swayed as if slapped. How dare this old goat say such a thing to him—to him, a hero of the Siberian War. He had been the only commanding officer to receive an Order of Mao Medallion.

  “Who ended the war in Siberia?” Nung asked thickly.

  “Ah, yes,” said Kao. “Your famous armor thrust to Yakutsk. Surely, you must understand that the war was winding down. You used your men to earn fame, gunning down several of your own soldiers. You hounded them in order to reach Yakutsk before Bingwen’s column.”

  “Your brother-in-law Bingwen’s column,” Nung said.

  “Bingwen’s near-relation to me makes no difference to the facts,” said Kao.

  Nung had fought against the Army clique his entire life. He had climbed the rungs of rank despite their attempts to torpedo him. Finding it hard to control his temper, Nung asked, “Do you know why I’m commanding this mission?”

  “It is obvious that you do not,” Kao said. “I know you believe yourself to be the Chairman’s pet, but I helped put you in the most miserable post I could find. Here. Who would know that the Chairman would decide on such a risky endeavor as this suicidal cross-polar—” Kao quit talking as he blinked in surprise, maybe at the boldness of his words.

  “Please,” Nung said. “Tell me more. Your comments on the Chairman’s abilities tickle my ears.”

  Marshal Kao straightened as he peered down at the shorter Nung. “You have your orders.”

  “Yes. I’ve studied the Army plan,” Nung said. “I detected your hand everywhere. You are methodical and detailed, having us move carefully from phase to phase as we leapfrog our way to Alaska.”

  “The cross-polar thrust is a matter of logistics. The pack ice and remoteness of the starting bases makes it a nightmare. It also means you lack needed numbers. But we will air-ferry you more troops and bring others from Navy submarines to reinforce you as you attack.”

  “I have studied the Army plan and I find it overly cautious,” Nung said.

  “Your praise makes me blush.”

  General Nung looked away. Ice, darkness and cold, the marshal would have them spend weeks out on the ice. The plan as it stood was hopeless. He knew that the others couldn’t understand his brilliance. They equated manners and education with brains. He lacked their polished ways. Yet he had outshone every other general in the Siberian War. Yes, he had shot slackers. He’d even gunned down a colonel. Afterward, his men had jumped whenever he gave an order. He had the iron for hard decisions just as the great Chairman Mao had possessed. He had the will and the confidence to keep going where other men halted in confusion or fright.

  Nung sighed. Without facing the prim old man, he said, “Your schemes appear beautiful in the conference chamber. But they fail to take into account the fighting soldier and his lust and joy of battle.”

  “I am not a butcher. That is true.”

  Nung faced the Army Minister. “Did you read my proposal?”

  “Yes. It was full of grammatical errors.”

  “My proposal was based on a similar historical situation. A dictator named Saddam Hussein once attempted to snatch oil-rich regions.”

  “I had no idea you read history.”

  “Military history,” Nung said. “After Saddam’s draining war with Iran, he wished to renege on his massive debts to Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  “Saddam invaded Kuwait and its oilfields. He used far too many soldiers for the attack and he failed to march far enough. He should have taken an elite force and kept going into northeastern Saudi Arabia. If he’d done so, he would have captured the majority of the Arab world’s oil wells. He could have threatened to blow up everything, and the world would have faced a massive oil crisis. That threat would have paralyzed America and kept them from building up a large Coalition force in Saudi Arabia. Instead, Saddam only went partway, grabbing Kuwait but leaving the Saudi oilfields intact. His timidity ended up losing him everything.”

  Marshal Kao eyed him, and there was a look of surprise on the old man’s face. Kao pursed his lips. “Yes. I see your point.”

  “Then you understand?”

  “Understand what?” Kao asked.

  They can see the past if someone points it out to them, but they can never see the application now. Why am I so farsighted and why are others so blind?

  “I brought you out here on the pack ice and in the hovertank for a reason,” Nung said.

  “I accepted the demonstration for a reason,” Kao said. “So we could speak without worrying about eavesdroppers or listening devices. Now tell me your point. I’m cold beyond belief and want to get to my plane so I can return to Beijing.”

  “The Army plan is too complicated,” Nung said. “You have endless phases with engineer-built airstrips, thousand-mile-long ice-roads and hastily-constructed bases in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. Your suggested air-traffic will alert the Americans long before we reach the northern slope of Alaska. The enemy has recon satellites—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting your dissertation,” Kao said. “But the Air Force has agreed to destroy the enemy reconnaissance satellites.”

  Nung struggled to control his temper. “Such elaborate phases or steps will alert the Americans. They will airlift reinforcements to the oilfields before our planned approach reaches U.S. soil.”

  “It is why you will need the build-up of supplies, planes, soldiers and snowtanks,” Kao said.

  “No, no,” Nung said. “The plan’s very deliberateness will bring about what you most fear. We will end up fighting a war of attrition, with our main rallying points on the exposed ice. A single nuclear missile could open the ice under our feet and lose us everything.”

  “Our laser-armed jets will protect you from nuclear missiles. Even n
ow, they are being winterized so they can operate in Arctic conditions.”

  “Can they protect us from a remote-guided submersible carefully maneuvered underneath us, igniting a mushroom cloud?” asked Nung.

  In shock, Kao stared at Nung.

  “I see you haven’t considered that,” Nung said. “It may not even take such a submersible. The laser-armed jets you’re speaking about are larger than our heavy cargo planes. It would take very special ice-runways to accommodate them for long. The planes are suitable for the continental defense of China, but I doubt their coverage in the polar Arctic.”

  “There are means for thickening ice to support heavy aircraft,” Kao said.

  “And the enemy submersible?” asked Nung.

  “If the Americans use tactical nuclear weapons,” Kao said, “they will face heavy retaliation. They know that our strategic ballistic missile and laser defense is far superior to theirs. I do not fear their tactical nuclear weapons. What I fear is your brashness, General. If it were up to me, I would replace you. I fear that you will attempt another of your cavalry raids. The Americans are not Siberians.”

  Nung seethed inside. The others called him a peasant because he didn’t paint and lacked their connections. Instead, he used his head, but they couldn’t hear him because he wasn’t a mandarin like them. He was sick of anyone telling him that Siberians weren’t Americans. They did it in an attempt to belittle his stunning armor thrust to Yakutsk.

  “Men are men,” Nung said.

  “Ah, that is so brilliant and so insightful. Please, repeat it so I can memorize the saying and tell it to the Chairman. I’m sure he will appreciate your aphorism.”

  “Sir, this attack calls for an all-out race to the northern slope. A small force of hovertanks moving boldly and quickly can accomplish what many brigades of slower formations will never achieve. Let me grab the oilfields and mine them with explosives. I will give you victory in less than a week.”

  Kao shook his head. “Hovertanks are fragile instruments. They are useless in high Arctic winds and they cannot operate on rugged ground or on slopes. What if the wind howls for a week, grounding your hovertanks? You’d run out of supplies, or we would have to airdrop you more. That would certainly alert the Americans.”

  “War is a risk,” Nung said. “The bold win by accepting the risks.”

  “The wise win through strategy. As the great Sun Tzu says, He wins his battles by making no mistakes.”

  “I can quote the ancient sage,” Nung said. “Appear at points which the enemy must hasten to defend, march swiftly to places where you are not expected.”

  “You misapply the great Sun Tzu because your judgment is tainted by your Russian education. You do not understand the Chinese way to victory. Perhaps as debilitating, you lack judgment on these matters because of your victorious thrust against demoralized and under-armed Siberians. We will use overwhelming force on the Americans.”

  “Yes,” Nung said. “If they wait for each of your phases to end before the next begins.”

  “General Nung, it is true that sometimes a brash plan works, but that is more a matter of luck than true military calculation. Crossing thousands of kilometers of pack ice calls for planning and logistics more than it does for wild cavalry charges. You are a fighter. I will grant you that. What works for a two-hundred kilometer thrust, however, will most certainly fail for a two-thousand kilometer attack. Therefore, to keep your Russian tendencies in cheek, Commissar Yongzheng and ten East Lightning operatives will join your command team. Yongzheng will have veto power on all your military decisions.”

  “That is outrageous.”

  “If you refuse such a situation,” said Kao. “Resign your commission.”

  “No.”

  “Then you will follow the Army plan. Combined arms will give you victory, and however distasteful it is to me, you will once again become a battlefield hero. Still, you will always know that I gave you this victory and that your way would have spelled disaster.”

  General Nung looked away. A slow methodical advance across the ice—it was wrong. He knew how to win. This Commissar Yongzheng…he’d have to find a way around the policeman. It would be dangerous—

  “It’s time to leave,” said Kao.

  “Yes,” Nung said. He would think this through later. He would not let these over-cultured mandarins thwart him or thwart China. The time would come when he would crush them as a moth in his fist. Despite every handicap, he would find a way to win this war with élan.

  “Let us return to base,” Nung said. “There is much that still needs doing.”

  Kao scrutinized him before nodding and heading for the ladder.

  -5-

  Last Call

  ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

  Stan Higgins rubbed his eyes as he said, “Exceptional. Use your fingers to sound out the syllables.”

  The skinny high-school freshman beside him, the one hunched over a history textbook, nodded slowly. The boy’s right index finger was under the word, and the skull ring on that finger and the black-painted nails spoke volumes. The boy, his name was Nicky, could barely read, but he could name you a thousand songs. Nicky had never seen his father, and his mother only came home at night around seven from the Anchorage Fifth District Court. Juneau was the capital of Alaska, but even these days Anchorage boasted more government workers.

  It was almost four p.m. and Stan had been helping Nicky since three when the last bell rang, dismissing the students for the day. There were too many like Nicky in Stan’s sixth period World History class. Seven weeks ago, there had been five students coming after school for help. Now there was just this one. Because Nicky had stuck it out, he’d become Stan’s favorite student. The various historical posters on the wall could explain the reason. The one Stan pointed to the most during the school year showed Winston Churchill holding a tommy gun and with his teeth chomped on a huge cigar. The caption below it read: Never give up, never, never, never.

  The cell phone in Stan’s cargo pants vibrated. He didn’t like interrupting their sessions. Reading concentration was often difficult for these boys, especially for those who listened to music twenty-four seven. One of his rules was that his students had to take out their music-plugs while in class and after school as he tried to teach them to read.

  “Just a minute,” Stan said, as he took out his cell, checking it. “I’d better take this call.”

  “Sure thing, Professor,” Nicky said, who sat back with a sigh.

  Stan no longer rolled his eyes when his students called him ‘Professor.’ He’d gotten used to it in the Alaskan National Guard a long time ago. He was a captain in an armor company, one of the few such companies in the State.

  National Guard units never used to have tanks. That began to change years ago as the U.S. military demobilized countless formations. There had simply been too much equipment to mothball properly. So the Army had donated heavy equipment like M1A2 Abrams tanks or M2 Bradleys to various National Guard units. Alaska had a few, old vehicles carefully kept up throughout the years.

  Stan was in education and he wore glasses while in the tanks. The constant vibration in them irritated his eyes while he wore contacts. So he didn’t, but used his old glasses instead. Jose Garcia, a car mechanic and his tech/gunner, had first called him Professor many years ago, and the nickname had stuck. A few years later, one of his men’s kids had called him that in class. The class had loved it, and it had quickly spread around the high school. Somehow, year after year, the nickname stuck even though he never told his students about it.

  “Hello, Jose,” Stan said.

  “Professor,” Jose Garcia said on the other end of the line. “You’d better get out here. A guy came into my shop a minute ago, telling me your dad’s been knocking on doors again. Your dad’s warning people the aliens are coming. It’s just a matter of time before someone calls the cops on him. And you know what that means.”

  “Has he been drinking?” Stan asked with a sickening feeling in his
gut. Not the aliens again—he’d carefully explained to his dad why space aliens couldn’t hurt the Earth. It had been more convincing to his dad giving him bogus reasons than trying to tell him that space aliens didn’t exist. At least, Stan had thought so at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “I know it ain’t my place,” Jose said, “but you need to get him into a clinic or something. The cops have it out for your dad.”

  No, not the cops, Stan thought, but Sergeant Jackson.

  “What street?” Stan asked.

  “Ah…Fifth and Michael,” Jose said. “I think you’d better hurry. From the sounds of it, he’s been at it for a while.”

  The sinking feeling in Stan grew. He wasn’t aware of it, but his shoulders slumped, and suddenly he felt the long school day. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep.

  “Thanks, Jose,” Stan said. “I appreciate the call.”

  “Hey, Professor, we’re the Guard. We stick together no matter what.”

  It was silly, but the words steadied Stan. It felt as if someone had his back, because someone actually did.

  He had two different worlds of friends. There were his intellectual buddies from school and those from the Guard, usually working class guys who drank beer and liked to hunt. Both worlds had good people, but there was no doubt they were different. Stan had theorized to his wife about the two. The first world talked about ideas. The second seemed to live them. Stan liked to think of himself as an ancient Greek or an ancient Athenian from before the Peloponnesian War. The great playwright Aeschylus had fought in the world-changing Battle of Marathon. Socrates, the philosopher, had fought at the Battles of Potidaea, Amphipolis and Delium and he’d been lauded for his heroism. In that time, even exceptionally brilliant men had lived whole lives, not the fractured existence that seemed to be people’s lot in post-industrial America.

  Stan pocketed the cell phone, told Nicky that they were stopping early today and urged him to use the reader he’d loaned him. One of the tricks to teaching boys to read was helping them find material they were genuinely interested in. Too often, the school-selected reading material was too dated or too tame for a young man. Too many boys were bored sick with school, especially because of the stress the schools placed upon keeping things non-competitive. In Stan’s opinion, boys thrived under competition, and they wanted action in a story, the more the better. Why did people think Hulk comics still sold so well?