SOUTHERN FRONT, ALASKA
The air wings from the seven Chinese carriers would have established air superiority over Alaska but for two key elements: defensive lasers and mass SAM sites providing safe havens for the American pilots.
First, there were the strategic ABM laser stations. The nearest was at Talkeetna in the Denali National Park, well north of Anchorage. It protected the city from direct Chinese air assaults. There were also two mobile laser batteries ringing Anchorage airport. They were small, tactical weapons as compared to the giant pulse-laser near Talkeetna. Wyvern Surface-to-Air Missiles together with radar-guided antiaircraft guns helped create safe pockets and air corridors lethal to any Chinese fighters and bombers. The combination gave American fighter pilots a sanctuary, a base from which to launch sudden raids on the enemy. Afterward, they darted back into safety.
This morning, C-in-C Sims of the Alaskan fronts practiced a bolder plan. The Army needed numbers and they needed more professionals at the Kenai Front now. Therefore, Sims was racing an advance company of a quick-deployment battalion of U.S. Army Rangers into Anchorage. It was a risk, as the company and some supplies rode on three Boeing 747s. They had left Oregon and gone deeply inland over the Yukon and presently flew for the metropolitan airport. Sims wondered what the Chinese were going to do about it. He was hoping nothing, but he doubted it. The Chinese pilots were good, their operators were better and their tech superior to anything America possessed.
The 747s neared the end of their journey: Anchorage airport. They flew alone and the sky was clear. High above Anchorage and out of visual sight were F-16s on combat patrol, ready for anything. An AWACS out of Fairbanks now warned Sims and his Air Chief of Chinese fighters approaching the city, although the Chinese were still fifty kilometers away.
“They’ve seen the Boeings,” Sims said.
“The enemy fighters are increasing speed,” the AWACS controller said. “It looks like they’re going to try to loop around the city. I think they want those Boeings, sir.”
Sims watched a screen in his command post bunker as he calculated odds. Should he order the 747s to break off and head for Fairbanks? The Army needed those Rangers at the front. He also needed all the air-transports he could cobble together. He couldn’t afford to lose any.
“Tell the 747s to hit the deck,” Sims said. “Tell them to race in and get near the airport’s lasers as fast as they can.”
The Air Chief relayed the order and sent the F-16s into action. They roared from their great height and out of the sanctuary of Anchorage, darting to intercept the Chinese.
More than two hundred kilometers away from the Chinese fighters, the lumbering transports banked hard.
The F-16 pilots were good, and they had the advantage of height. They traded it for speed. As more F-16s scrambled on the runways, the original fighters reached interception range and hunted for Chinese J-25 Mongooses, air superiority fighters.
Switching on their radars, the American pilots scanned the skies. Unfortunately, the Chinese jamming equipment was better than anything America had. The F-16 radar ranges were cut in half by the jamming. As yet, they were unable to track any targets.
The F-16s kept boring toward the enemy. Finally, their radar began to burn through enemy jamming. Then their threat receivers growled, telling them enemy radar was locked onto their aircraft. Almost immediately, Chinese air-to-air missiles arrived. An F-16 exploded. The others jinked hard, to the side, up, down—a six-inch wide missile roared past a fighter. Other missiles found their targets, hard kills as the destroyed F-16s rained metallic parts.
Three American pilots refused to let it go. They swerved back onto an intercept course. The radar locked onto individual Mongooses. American missiles launched, zooming in the direction of the oncoming Chinese. Then more Chinese air-to-air missiles arrived, and another F-16 exploded.
“Keep attacking!” the Air Chief radioed. “Engage them. Keep them from the transports.”
The last two pilots keep going, seeking visual range. They would use their cannons. They never made it as Chinese missiles killed one and damaged the other, forcing the pilot to turn for home. The Americans didn’t know it, but their air-to-air missiles had killed one of the Mongooses.
Using afterburners, the rest of the Chinese fighters now swung around Anchorage. They had a healthy respect for the laser batteries. The fighters swung to the south of Anchorage, thereby giving themselves more range from the Talkeetna pulse-laser than if they’d gone to the north.
Chinese radar burned through American jamming and presented them with three massive targets: 747s. From thirty-four kilometers away, the Chinese launched Black Thunder air-to-air missiles. They were radar-guided, a deadly piece of ordnance.
The big transports had been engaging their anti-radar jamming as well as ejecting chaff and EW decoys. It was a war of computer chips and software. Three Black Thunder missiles veered off course. One hit an EW decoy, creating an intense explosion in the sky. Two of the missiles zoomed at the lumbering transports. The first slammed into the giant aircraft and exploded spectacularly in a massive fireball, consuming jet fuel and incinerating the majority of the fighting men aboard. The survivors plummeted to Earth. No parachutes deployed from those inert figures. The second 747 was luckier at first. With smoke billowing from a joint of wing and body, the monstrous plane made an emergency landing on a highway. Tires skidded and smoke billowed from the rubber. It was looking good until the end. The wheels left the blacktop and hit gravel. The left wing went down, hitting the ground, scraping. Metal sparked and screeched. Seconds later, a fireball explosion killed every U.S. Army Ranger aboard.
The last 747 survived the air-to-air missile barrage, a tribute to chaff, EW decoys and luck. The pilot also attempted to jink, giving his passengers a wild and terrifying ride.
Two of the Chinese fighter-jocks became overeager, unsatisfied with their destruction and wanting more. Trusting in their jamming and superior electronics, they raced into Anchorage’s sanctuary zone. They wanted the last transport and therefore came within range of the airport’s defensive lasers. One of the Chinese fighters disintegrated in the air, parts simply dropping away. The remaining fighter veered away sharply. The pilot must have come to his senses as he fled for safety.
In the end, one 747 landed at the airport, disgorging the needed soldiers onto the tarmac.
It also started an argument between General Sims and his Air Chief. Should they rush the needed troops to Anchorage or land farther away at Fairbanks and put the soldiers on a train for the front? It was a matter of time, keeping air-transports intact and sheer desperation. Sims desperately needed to stem the Chinese advance, and for that he needed more and better-trained soldiers and always tons more munitions.
USS SAN JOSE
Captain Roger Clemens stood at the command module of his Los Angeles-class nuclear-powered fast attack submarine. They were also known as the 688 class. His hands gripped the module’s sides. He mustn’t let the crew know he was having doubts.
I’m going to die today.
Captain Clemens knew it because he was going to show the Chinese what happened when you challenged the United States of America on its home ground.
“The destroyer is turning north four degrees, sir,” the boat chief said.
Tightening his grip on the module, Captain Clemens watched the VR blips. The module was one of the newest improvements of this old submarine. He swallowed. They had spent the last ninety-seven minutes sneaking up on a carrier in the center of the defensive zone surrounding it, using a deep layer of cold water to do so. During these last few minutes, they had crawled out of the layer and into the warmer, upper water.
Captain Clemens was a small man. He had a narrow nose and close-set eyes. He now removed his captain’s cap and pulled a comb out of his back pocket. He ran the comb through his thick dark hair. His mother and later his wife—before the divorce—had continuously commented about it. Combing his luxuriously thick hair was a nervous ha
bit of long standing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught one of the sonar men nudging his fellow. The other man looked up, and both craned around to glance at him.
“Do you have something to report?” asked Clemens.
The two sailors turned back to their sensors, their heads hunched as they peered intently at their monitors.
Clemens swallowed as he realized they thought his behavior odd. He put away the comb, put on his hat and tightened his grip on the module so his fingers began to ache.
I’m going to show the Chinese what it means to come stomping in our playground.
The chief, a big man with a red face, moved beside him. “Are you feeling well, Captain?” he whispered.
Clemens couldn’t answer that even though he wanted to present the calm image of a daring and tough-minded submarine captain. He’d watched every movie ever made about submarines and knew how a good captain was supposed to act. During his younger days, he’d read endlessly about underwater warfare. The last time there had been a really good naval war involving submarines had been between the Imperial Japanese Navy and the American Navy. Now there had been a group of submariners. No one had ever beaten the records of those American submarine captains. His favorite story in those days had been called, “The Skipper who Hated the Japanese.” In the story, Bridge Commander Sam Dealey had shown the Japanese that American subs could hunt destroyers. Clemens still knew the story by heart, and had always wanted to emulate Sam Dealey, a lean, quick-tempered Texan.
“What’s our way out?” the chief whispered.
With an effort of will, Captain Clemens tapped the module. “Right there,” he said. “We’re hitting it.”
“The carrier?” asked the chief, sounding shocked. “If we attack them now from where we are they’ll pinpoint us, sir.”
“I have an idea about that,” said Clemens. He wanted to destroy an enemy carrier. He wanted people to point at him and whisper to each other about his courage. Yes, they would say it took fantastic courage to slip in among hunting destroyers and helicopters and demolish a Chinese supercarrier. The Chinese had taken the place of the Imperial Japanese. Why was it always one of the Asiatic peoples trying to attack America? What was wrong with them anyway?
“What idea, sir?” the chief asked, looking at him closely.
Clemens tapped the image of the carrier again.
“Can you tell me your plan, sir?” asked the chief.
Clemens was hardly aware of the question. He was thinking about his early years in the service. He’d joined when America had been the predominant naval force in the world. It was inconceivable the Chinese could better them. If the Imperial Japanese hadn’t been able to do it, how did the nationalistic Chinese think they could?
We beat the Japanese. Heck, we destroyed their entire navy, just about sank every one of them. Now I’m going to destroy a Chinese carrier.
“Maybe we should rethink this, sir,” the chief whispered.
“Ready torpedo tubes two and three,” Clemens said.
The chief blinked at him. There was fear in his eyes.
“Four degrees starboard and up fifty feet,” Clemens said. “I want us in firing range.”
“You can’t go up there, sir,” the chief whispered. “They’ll pinpoint us for sure.”
Clemens pointed at the image on the module. “Do it, Chief, or face a court martial when we dock.”
The chief’s head swayed back as if he’d been slapped. His blunt features turned crimson. He gave the needed orders, and then he went across the bridge, standing far away from Captain Clemens.
That suits me just fine. The chief needs to do something about his body odor.
For the next fifteen minutes, Clemens gave clipped orders. The Chinese had all the advantages with their advanced tech and superior numbers. Well, he was going to change that. They’d taken out two American carriers with a dirty terrorist attack. He was going to hunt down the Chinese carriers and take them out one at a time. He was going to show the world what the American Silent Service was made of.
“There!” Clemens said, as he stared at the blips on his module. “Fire torpedoes two and three.”
Every gaze swiveled toward the chief.
“I’ve given my order,” said Clemens.
The chief nodded, and there was sweat on his crimson face.
The San Jose shivered as the two Mk48 ADCAP Mod 7 torpedoes left the submarine’s tubes. Each torpedo was nineteen feet long and carried a six hundred and fifty pound warhead.
“Down fifty feet,” Clemens said, “and turn us around. We’re leaving the same way we came in.”
Using their swashplate piston engines, the torpedoes sped through the murky waters as Clemens watched the timer on his module. He waited, and he stopped breathing. The torpedoes used Otto fuel II, a monopropellant. The fuel decomposed into hot gas when ignited, adding to the warhead’s power. As Clemens thought about that, a mighty explosion sounded. It was a clear and violent sound, and it was many times louder than it should have been. The accompanying pressure-wave made the San Jose groan in metallic protest.
“Depths charges!” one of the sonar-men shouted.
“They must be dropping them from a helicopter,” the chief said.
Clemens stared at the chief as the blood drained from his face. He hated helicopters. Unconsciously, he drew his comb.
“They’re dropping more!” the sonar-man shouted.
Clemens dropped his comb in surprise. As he bent to pick it up off the deckplates, the first depth charge exploded, and it ruptured the forward hull of the Los Angeles-class fast attack boat. The big submarine tilted and it shook worse than before as all around came more metallic groans.
“Emergency!” the chief shouted. He tripped as another depth charge exploded. The chief went down hard, hitting his head on a stanchion.
Before anyone could race to help the bleeding chief, before Captain Clemens could give a word of encouragement, a powerful explosion ruptured the hull. Freezing cold, dark water poured in at a frightening rate. It swept up crewmen and threw them against the bulkheads.
It was the end of the San Jose, the end of Captain Clemens and his crew. None of them would ever know that they hadn’t been hunting a carrier, but one of the Chinese fuel tankers. Its size had fooled Clemens and his crew into thinking it was a supercarrier. This tanker had been waiting to unload its precious cargo. The needed diesel now began spreading across the gray waters of the Gulf of Alaska.
ARCTIC OCEAN
Paul Kavanagh slid across the pack ice on his skis. It was bitterly cold so his bones ached. The howling wind blew against him, and it blew fine particles of snow across the eerie landscape. The flat terrain spread in all directions, an icy desert with an ocean underground.
There were different kinds of ridges and low formations. If a piece of ice slid over another, it was called rafted ice. The Algonquin had spoken to him some time ago about ice islands. Those came from glaciers, drifting in the summer and freezing into the pack ice later.
Paul didn’t care about any of it. He just skied. He moved into the freezing wind, determined to survive, to beat the Algonquin at the Indian’s own game. If he endured, he would see his son again. He had fantasies about making things right with Cheri. Those were the best thoughts. He’d escaped into his mind as he journeyed through the eternal darkness. Sometimes, the worst times, he would see Murphy again in his mind’s eye. He’d see the ex-Army Ranger peering at him through the cat’s window. It was those staring eyes, the ones that saw—
Paul shook his head. He didn’t want to see Murphy any more. He just needed to ski, to push the long runners over the ice, listening to their crunch and hiss.
The wind howled against him. It blew against his eyes and pierced the woolen fabric of his ski mask. It made his cheeks numb. His lips were cracked and bleeding. The shrieking wind hammered spikes into his brain, or it seemed to. He wanted a beer, warm beer, some Guinness. If he could sit in a bar by a fire and just sip beer for a month
—that would be Paradise.
Instead, he was here, trying to reach Dead Horse, Alaska. Chinese had slaughtered the oilmen. Chinese Special Forces backpack-flyers had tried to add him to the list of the dead.
Paul shook his head again. He’d killed the killers. That was good. If he survived—Paul shook his head a third time, more stubbornly. When he survived, or at the end of this journey, he’d go to the oil company or maybe even to Blacksand headquarters and explain what he’d done. They might give him his back pay. Heck, they might reward him. Cheri and Mikey could use the reward money.
You’re not going to defeat me, Geronimo.
Thinking about the Algonquin, Paul looked up into the Arctic wind.
Ahead, John Red Cloud skied like an automaton, pulling the toboggan loaded with their supplies. The Algonquin didn’t have any quit in him. He’d put his head down into the wind and rhythmically poked the ice with the ends of his ski poles. The man refused to rest. He only stopped by his watch.
They huddled together then and climbed into sleeping bags. Red Cloud used the toboggan like a shield, laying it against him. When the watch’s alarm went off, the Algonquin refused to let him sleep in. Red Cloud climbed out of the bag, used a tiny sterno stove and heated coffee.
The hot coffee, it always felt good going down. It helped Paul climb out of his sleeping bag and ski another day toward Alaska.
Paul was tired now. The storm had howled in the morning—when he’d climbed out of the sleeping bag anyway. It still howled. The assault-gun-strap dug into his shoulder. The assault rifle was heavy, but there was no way he’d toss it. He had White Tigers to kill.
The more Paul thought about it, the less sense it made that Chinese Special Forces had attacked the platform. Was there an oil war going on that no one talked about?
Invasion: Alaska Page 27
