Invasion: Alaska

by Vaughn Heppner

  “You have talked to me,” Dr. Blanco said. “Now what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I need more data.”

  “Then I suggest you keep working, my dear. Find out what is going on.”

  That was good advice, and she planned to do just that.

  -6-

  Last Moves

  PLATFORM P-53, ARCTIC OCEAN

  “Get up,” the former master sergeant said, the man Murphy had hurled the shot glass at.

  Paul Kavanagh removed the arm slung over his eyes. He lay on a couch in the base rec room, with two Blacksand guards in parkas staring at him from the foot of the couch. He’d heard them come in, but had ignored their presence. Each wore a fur-lined hood and ski mask. Paul could see their eyes and mouth and that each slung a rifle over his left shoulder. They looked like Arctic bank robbers or kidnappers, making him feel even more like a prisoner.

  “Did you hear me?” asked the master sergeant.

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “I heard you.”

  “Then get up! John Red Cloud wants to talk to you.”

  Paul swung his legs off the couch, putting his feet on the carpeted floor. The otherwise empty room had a billiards table, some TVs with Xboxes attached and a ping-pong table. Outside, the wind blew against the lone window, a tiny, reinforced thing.

  “If you want to stay working at the rig,” said the master sergeant, “you’d better hurry up.”

  Paul Kavanagh wanted the job. He needed it and couldn’t afford to screw up yet another time. He’d talked with Cheri once since coming here, and she wasn’t doing as well with her hairstyling as she’d hoped. She and Mikey needed cash for rent. The car had taken more than she’d expected to fix, and—and he needed to send them money if he didn’t want his ex-wife and kid on the streets.

  The trouble was Paul had left the shed with Murphy in Dead Horse. John Red Cloud had wanted to leave both him and Murphy there, but he wanted trouble with the law even less.

  Red Cloud was the boss of the Blacksand team at the Arctic oilrig and had been waiting at Dead Horse for their arrival. The entire situation had gotten even worse for Paul. Red Cloud wasn’t just any Indian, no, not a chance. It was Paul’s luck that Red Cloud was Algonquian. When he’d first heard that, Paul Kavanagh had known what it meant. Algonquian was a northern Indian tribe. It was also one of the two language groups spoken by northern Indians. The other language group was Athabaskan. The only Native American group north of the Algonquians was Inuit or Eskimo. Eskimo was an Algonquian word. It meant raw meat eater. The Algonquians had coined the name before the coming of the Europeans. It had been meant as an insult to the Inuit, as the Algonquians cooked their meat.

  Paul had known all this because America had once lent Canada some Marine battalions. He’d fought separatist French-Canadians for the Canadian government. And just as they had done in the colonial days when many native people had fought with the French, many Quebec-based tribes had sided with the separatists. That had been particularly important in the Canadian Shield area where Paul had done the majority of his service. Red Cloud was Algonquian. He had fought for the French-Canadian separatists. Worse for Paul, Red Cloud had witnessed Marines shooting several of his fellow warriors in the woods. After the mini-Canadian civil war, Red Cloud had been driven out of Canada because of his war-record. The Canadian government had granted amnesty to the French-Canadian separatists, but not to the Algonquian warriors who had claimed tribal independence from all sides. Fleeing Canada, Red Cloud had found refuge with Blacksand. Given his northern upbringing and training, Red Cloud made an ideal mercenary for the Arctic oilrigs.

  Paul had learned some of this from Red Cloud as the Blacksand boss had chewed them out in Dead Horse.

  “He used to be in the Marines,” Murphy had said, using his thumb to point at Paul. Murphy’s voice had sounded funny because of the broken nose and the heavy bandages swathing it.

  Red Cloud had nodded in a way that told Paul the Indian had already known that. The Algonquian warrior had gone on to inform them that a fine was coming out of their paychecks. Each of them would work at the rig long enough to pay for their plane tickets and the fine Red Cloud was adding for breach of contract.

  “Why not just send us home, Chief?” Murphy had asked.

  Those black eyes had locked onto Murphy, and slowly, Red Cloud had shaken his head. There was a hidden deadliness to the Algonquian. Paul could easily imagine Red Cloud torturing a bound man. The Indian wasn’t someone Paul would want to get angry, and yet he had already managed to do so.

  The plane ride to Platform P-53 had proven uneventful, if long. Outside the plane had been ice, polar ice, thousands of bleak miles of it in grim darkness and in all directions. The sun wouldn’t shine in this part of the world for months.

  From a distance, their destination had looked like Santa Claus’s kingdom. There had been lights, towers and ice. They’d landed on an ice runway and ridden a tracked snowcat to the sheds surrounding the rig. That was Platform P-53: sheds, three working derricks, gravel, huge storage tanks and ice, polar ice floating on the Arctic Ocean. The closest place of interest was the North Pole, while Siberia and Greenland were almost as near as Alaska and Canada.

  If what Paul had done hadn’t already been enough, in the last few days, Paul had inadvertently broken three rules. One, he’d phoned his ex-wife in order to talk with Mikey. That had broken two rules at once. In the States, he’d signed a contract that said he’d leave all communication devices behind. By actually using the cell phone to speak with foreign entities he’d broken the second rule. The third infraction had been a second fight with Murphy. Two days ago, the ex-Army Ranger had ambushed him in the rec room. Murphy had clipped the back of his head with a cue stick and almost finished the fight by ramming the end into his back. The fight had ended with Paul using the cue stick. He’d ripped it out of Murphy’s grasp and cracked him on the side of the head, causing the attacker to thump onto the rec room’s carpet. Since then, Paul had been quarantined in the room, while Murphy recovered in the infirmary.

  “Last chance, Kavanagh,” the master sergeant in the rec room said.

  If you lose this job now, you’re probably finished for good, Paul told himself. At least you have to try. With a sigh, he shoved himself to his feet. “Yeah, I’m coming. Let’s go talk with Red Cloud.”

  Soon, the two guards and Paul crunched across the snow, a light layer of it over the ice. It didn’t snow here much. In fact, many parts of the Arctic received less precipitation than a hot desert.

  The derricks pumped oil, with the giant pistons moving up and down. There was a gas flame burning at the top of a pole, getting rid of excess waste fumes.

  Paul shivered. The wind was cold against his face. He’d heard incredibly that there were colder places in Siberia. The saltwater here helped keep the temperature higher than otherwise.

  A different shed loomed near. There were twelve of varying sizes. The idea that terrorists could get up here to hurt the oilrig seemed more than ludicrous. Still, it was work, and work brought money, and that money Paul needed now more than ever.

  “Go on,” said a guard. “And make sure you stamp your feet on the mat. Red Cloud doesn’t like snow on his rug.”

  “Take your boots off inside,” the other guard said, glancing at the former master sergeant.

  “If he doesn’t know that,” the master sergeant said, “he’s an idiot.”

  “We already know he’s an idiot,” the second guard said. “So what’s your point?”

  Paul glanced angrily at the second guard.

  “What did I tell you?” the second guard told the first. “This guy can’t hold his temper for nothing. Go on inside, loser. And good riddance to you, I say.”

  Paul thought about that as he opened the door. Hot air blasted against his face, it felt good. He shut the door behind him, stamped his feet on the mat and took off his boots. The carpeted area had couches, recliners and several paintings on the wall, store-bough
t pieces of woodlands. There was also as large-screen TV. Various doors led to different bedrooms. They were all closed. One door was open, and Paul spied a desk.

  “In here, Marine.”

  Paul recognized the odd accent. It wasn’t French-Canadian, but had a hint of it. It must be an Algonquian accent. Taking a deep breath, Paul headed for the open door, still not used to walking around in his stocking feet.

  The small Algonquian sat behind a modest desk. Red Cloud had a computer screen and several wooden figurines: an elk, a grizzly and a wolverine. On the wall were more woodland paintings. A Remington shotgun stood in a corner, while an old Uzi machinegun hung on a wall. Red Cloud wore lumberjack style clothes and a strange buckskin pendant on his throat. He studied Paul with those dark eyes of his and finally indicated that he sit down.

  There were two chairs, both wooden. Paul sat in the nearest, sitting back so the dowels creaked.

  “I’ve been reading your war-record,” Red Cloud said, pointing at the computer screen. “You made several deep penetration raids.”

  “There wasn’t much of a front in the woods of Quebec,” Paul said. “Everything was a deep raid, but you know that.”

  Red Cloud nodded. “During the war, I killed five Marines, two with my bare hands. I caught them in their sleeping bags.”

  Paul had told himself to remain calm and cool while in here, but he felt his face flush with heat. “Is that right? Well I found more of you snow-fleas sitting on the crapper than you could—” Paul snapped his mouth shut, struggling to remain quiet.

  “You are a troubled man.”

  Paul shrugged.

  “Troubled men are a liability in a land like this.”

  “Yeah?” Paul asked. “I could live off the land better than anyone here, including you, Cochise.”

  “Boasts do not impress me.”

  “I ain’t boasting,” Paul said, trying to control his slipping temper. “I’m stating fact.”

  Red Cloud touched the pedant on his throat. “You are a warrior. You are a man who likes to fight.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that I didn’t start the fight in the bar?”

  “I’ve read your record. You had several citations for courage and three chances for a Purple Heart. Yet you never received a medal. Why was that?”

  “I’m not good at sucking up,” Paul muttered. “Cheri could tell you that.”

  “Warriors are good in a war, but they are trouble during peace. If I were going to raid Greenland, I would choose you. But if we’re to keep men confined in close quarters here, you would be my second to last choice.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Murphy would be the first to go,” Red Cloud said. “He stinks of even more trouble than you do. My decision here has nothing to do with the fact that we were enemies once. You fought well in Quebec. But I will not keep a warrior like you in my combat team.” Red Cloud regarded him. “The mechanics are working on the plane’s engine, overhauling it. Once it is ready, I am sending you two back to Dead Horse.”

  “What about my contract?” Paul asked. He felt numb, defeated once more.

  “You broke your word. I can terminate your contract at anytime, and it is my will to do so now.”

  Paul stared into those pitiless eyes. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to get up and do something. Cheri had sounded desperate over the phone. She and Mikey needed the money.

  “Listen…” Paul said, searching for the right words. He’d never been good at this and he felt so numb, so defeated. He didn’t know how to kiss butt and he didn’t want to start with some French-Canadian Algonquian. He turned away from those knowing eyes. “Listen,” he said roughly. “I…ah fought against you once, right.”

  “I have said as much. You were a worthy foe.”

  “Yeah, I’m glad to hear it.” Paul shook his head without looking at the Algonquian. This was so demeaning. “That isn’t what I wanted to say. I…I have a wife and kid back home.”

  “The records say you are divorced,” Red Cloud told him, as he indicted the computer.

  “Right, right, that’s right,” Paul said. “But I’m helping her make payments, make rent. My boy—”

  “Mike Kavanagh,” Red Cloud said.

  “I call him Mikey,” Paul said. “He needs…he needs—damnit! This is hard for me. I don’t know the right words. I’m too quick with my fists sometimes. My temper hasn’t been any good since Quebec. I don’t know how—” Paul’s lips firmed and he glared at Red Cloud. “I’m asking for another chance. I’m not asking because I deserve it. I probably don’t. I know I’m trouble, but let me work here until I can send them money. They really need it. I don’t care about myself, but, but…do you have any kids?”

  “The Marines killed them during the war,” Red Cloud said.

  Paul noted the hard eyes, the mask-like Algonquian features. Red Cloud reminded him of the Wild West photographs of Geronimo and Sitting Bull.

  “I’m sorry they died,” Paul said.

  Red Cloud just stared at him.

  “That’s it then, huh?”

  “You will work until the plane is ready. You will check the outer perimeter ice or you will not eat.”

  The anger had left Paul. Had Marines really slain Red Cloud’s kids? War sucks. Sometimes life wasn’t that great either. He’d lost another job and he was stuck up here so he couldn’t even try to get another one, no matter how rotten it was. How was Cheri supposed to make rent? What would Mikey think about his dad now?

  Paul stood up. “I get it, and I don’t blame you.”

  “Go,” Red Cloud said. “Your presence wearies me, and I am already too tired.”

  Paul realized he’d been screwed from the start. Stuck in the North Pole with a Marine-hating Algonquian for a boss—it couldn’t get any worse than that.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Anna Chen arrived in her West Wing cubicle exhausted. She’d been up until four a.m. last night, reading the latest CIA reports and comparing them with her own sources of information concerning the People’s Republic of China.

  Something had caught her eye yesterday, making sleep nearly impossible as she kept churning over what it meant. It was a speech by the Agricultural Minister, Jian Shihong. He had spoken in Tiananmen Square for the Tea Ceremony commemorating the dead lost during Taiwan’s reunification with the mainland. Two things intrigued her about the event. One, the ailing Chairman had appeared on stage with the Agricultural Minister. Anna had spent two hours examining every photo and recording she could showing the Chairman during the Tea Ceremony. He seldom appeared in public these days, and reports of his failing health were rampant. On stage, he’d sat very straight, as if it were difficult for him to do so. During Jian Shihong’s speech, the Chairman had sat even straighter. The old man’s eyes had seemed to shine during one part of the speech especially. That was the second thing that had intrigued Anna: the Agricultural Minister’s commentary on Cheng Ho.

  She was familiar with the Chinese eunuch. During the Ming Dynasty of Renaissance times, Cheng Ho had often been referred to as the Admiral of the Triple Treasure or the Three-Jewel Eunuch. He first set out on his voyages during the reign of Ming Emperor Yung Lo. The seven grand expeditions occurred from 1405 to 1422. During the same time, Prince Henry the Navigator of Portugal was sending his ships inching down the west coast of Africa in tiny caravels.

  With his fleet, Cheng Ho sailed beyond the China Sea and around the Indian Ocean. He reached the east coast of Africa and voyaged as far as the tip of the Dark Continent. Unlike Prince Henry’s small flotillas with their leaky ships, Cheng Ho possessed monstrous vessels. The largest, the Treasure Ship, boasted nine masts, had been four hundred and forty-four feet long, with a beam of one hundred and eighty feet. It had airtight bulkheads to prevent leakage or fire from spreading and a gigantic rudder.

  The grandest expedition had employed thirty-seven thousand soldiers, scholars and sailors and had been composed of three hundred and seventeen ships. It had als
o been uniquely Chinese in outlook. These expeditions hadn’t sailed in conquest, but in peace, displaying the splendor and power of the new Ming Dynasty. It had shown the greatness of the Middle Kingdom—China considered itself as the center of the world. Cheng Ho had also gathered curios for the emperor and his court and had given gifts of massive proportion to those he’d visited. His generosity had shown the greatness of China, and that it needed nothing from the outer reaches of the world. The most excellent of the curios taken back to Beijing had been a giraffe from Africa.

  In Chinese belief of that time, when Heaven smiled on the Emperor because of his excellent rule, it radiated cosmic forces of good will. This surplus energy helped create creatures like dragons and k’i-lin. The k’i-lin, a type of Chinese unicorn, had the ‘body of a deer and the tail of an ox.’ It only ate herbs and harmed no living creature. To the Chinese, the giraffe they discovered in the Bengal king’s zoo fit this description. Cheng Ho had soon learned that the giraffe was called a girin in its native country. To his ear and those around him that had sounded very much like k’i-lin, confirming his belief. When they brought the giraffe back to China, people were amazed, and they agreed that this was a sign of Heaven’s favor and showed the goodness of the Middle Kingdom.

  These voyages were a marvel, and they’d shown that China had possessed superior technology as compared to Europe at the time. However, there had been political forces at work that had strangled the naval expeditions.

  The two forces vying for power were the emperor’s eunuchs or courtiers and the mandarins, the bureaucrats that ran the country. The eunuchs or castrati had gained their power because of their nearness to the emperor. No one but eunuchs or the emperor and his sons were allowed in the palace among the emperor’s many wives and concubines. Therefore, the eunuchs not only intimately understood what interested the emperor, but they could whisper suggestions to him at any time. Over time, this had led to their political rise.