Invasion: Alaska

by Vaughn Heppner

  He might have shrugged, but that would take too much energy. He was cold, tired and wanted to stop. One of his fears was that either the Algonquin or he would get sick. If he got sick, Paul knew the Algonquin would simply leave him behind as they’d left Murphy.

  What if the Algonquin gets sick? Will I leave him behind?

  Paul shivered. If the Indian died or sickened…Paul hated the idea of trekking across the ice by himself. Did Red Cloud feel the same way about him?

  His thoughts clouded then. It took too much effort to think. He would survive. He would push himself no matter what happened. The hope of making things right with Cheri and seeing his son again, it was a spur. And he had a promise to Murphy.

  Don’t think about him. Just don’t.

  So Paul didn’t. He endured, and he followed John Red Cloud across the pack ice.

  PRCN SUNG

  Admiral Ling sat very still as he heard the news about the destroyed tanker.

  “Did she unload first?” asked Ling.

  “No, sir,” said Commodore Yen.

  The two men were in the admiral’s ready room with its costly silk paintings on the walls. The room tilted back and forth as the big carrier rode out a storm. Even this deep in the ship, they heard the icy hail striking the monstrous warship.

  “Do you hear that?” asked Ling. “The hail striking metal?”

  The Commodore nodded.

  Each of the aging men sat in a comfortable chair. The older sat behind an ornate teak desk. The younger and taller Commodore sat before it.

  “Winter will come early to this region,” said Ling. “I’m beginning to think we’re cursed.”

  Even though they were alone in the room, Commodore Yen glanced about nervously. Maybe with his VR monocle he saw more than others could. Maybe years of caution motivated him. “I ask that you be careful about what you say, sir. The walls have ears.”

  Admiral Ling waved away the suggestion.

  “I must hasten to add that the Chairman has declared us liberators,” said Yen. “We fight for the Eskimos and their freedom.”

  “I’m too old for that nonsense,” Ling said, opening a drawer. He took out an old bottle of baijiu, clunking in onto his desk. After setting out two thick glasses, he poured a liberal splash into each. He handed one glass to Yen. The white liquor sloshed back and forth, as the room continued to tilt.

  “The Vice-Admiral sulks,” Commodore Yen said, cradling his glass with both hands. “Your scolding a few days ago—”

  “I didn’t scold him,” said Ling. “I berated the incompetent fool for losing the Seward depot. Now we’ve lost another of our fuel tankers to these cagey American submariners. We cannot lose more of these precious vessels or their cargos. Our fuel situation has become more than troublesome.”

  “Please, sir, listen to me,” Yen said. “The Vice-Admiral has the Chairman’s ear. If he sulks, it means he is sending his uncle reports about you.”

  Admiral Ling tossed the baijiu down his throat. It made the right half of his face twitch, which highlighted the left, dead half.

  “The harder you berate the Vice-Admiral,” said Yen, “the harder the Chairman will likely come down on you for any…failures.”

  For the first time, Ling looked shocked. “Do you think we will fail?”

  “I think before we lost the latest tanker that our fuel situation was tight. Now it is much worse.”

  “We have enough fuel for several weeks of combat,” said Ling. “That is long enough for us to reach and conquer Anchorage.”

  “The Americans are fighting hard in Moose Pass. Maybe the others will learn to do likewise.”

  “Do not expect anything from the Vice-Admiral’s men,” said Ling. “I know that I do not. It makes his blunders more tolerable.”

  “Sir—”

  Admiral Ling shook his head. Once he had Yen’s attention, he poured more baijiu for each of them. “I am unloading the Army vehicles.”

  “The tanks?” asked Yen.

  Admiral Ling nodded. “I will do more than unload them, but send them into battle.”

  “The Army tanks guzzle fuel,”

  Ling swirled the white liquor in his glass, regarding it. “We have a narrow window for victory. That is my belief. The Americans must know about our fuel shortage. Why otherwise destroy the storage facilities in Seward and trade their submarines for a tanker’s destruction?”

  “Maybe it was luck on their part.”

  “No,” said Ling. “I do not believe in luck of that kind. It was strategy. Unless the Chairman sends more tankers, fuel will be our bottleneck. We have enough for now, enough for several weeks of hard combat. Therefore, we will drive even harder at the Americans, even using the Army tanks to force breaches—given that the American defenses become firm. Soon, the Americans will surely bring greater reinforcements from their homeland. Maybe Canadian forces will add their weight to the enemy defense.”

  “The Chairman has tricked or scared the Canadians into neutrality.”

  Ling nodded. The Chairman’s brilliance in these matters never failed to impress him. Why couldn’t the Chairman’s nephew prove even slightly competent? The Vice-Admiral….

  “My point is this, my old friend,” said Ling, trying not to think about the Vice-Admiral. “We will drive for Anchorage. I do not care about the causalities. We have more than enough men. I am not certain, however, that we will have enough time or enough fuel. Therefore, we will spare nothing now to pour through. If winter comes early here, it could strand us while the enemy gains reinforcements.”

  Commodore Yen’s thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Then he spoke about the tanks, revealing his preoccupation. “I had thought you were going to save the Army tanks for the actual storming of Anchorage.”

  “I can no longer afford that option. Since we failed to capture Seward’s storage depot, we must reach Anchorage before the real cold descends on us. Once we take the city, then the State will fall to us like a ripe pear.”

  Commodore Yen sipped his baijiu. “I suspect your analysis is correct. You took Taiwan for Greater China. Now it is time to take Alaska. You will win.”

  “I will win,” agreed Ling, “provided we continue our advance at the present speeds. I will keep a fire lit under the ground commanders. Whatever the price, we must reach Anchorage in two and no later than three weeks.”

  The two clinked glasses, drank and listened to the hail battering the great ship.

  The weather must hold. Ling shook his head. Whatever had possessed the Chairman to attempt this invasion now, this near winter? It was risky, and it was simply another reason why they needed to proceed with all speed.

  COOPER LANDING, ALASKA

  The National Guard armor company left Anchorage with Stan Higgins, their modified M1A2s riding piggyback on the Heavy Equipment Transporters. Unfortunately, they never made it to the main line of defense near Tustumena Lake, which had been shattered in a night of deadly combat. Two days of journey brought Stan and his tanks to the Number One Highway before Cooper Landing. The shattered remnants of the western front of the Kenai Command had reached a new defense line. Here, bedraggled airborne, National Guardsmen and Militiamen, many half-frozen and too many with black toes or frostbitten noses, found themselves willy-nilly formed into ad hoc formations.

  Stan knew it was no way to run a defense. Already, however, he understood a hundred historical military incidents better because of what he’d gone through. War was chaos. The actual U.S. military term was friction, the physics kind that caused an object to slow down and stop. If you pushed a piano, say, friction made it nearly impossible to move unless it had wheels. If you attempted to move your company of tanks on HETS, friction made it hard to get anywhere. A hauling cable snapped, meaning wasted time as mechanics installed a new one. A tire blew. Time passed as men put on a spare. One of the haulers ran out of gas. They towed it to a gas station. They took the wrong route at Portage, where a massive traffic jam had halted Militiamen trying to get to the battle
field in their battered pickups and sedans. Friction grew the more soldiers and vehicles one attempted to move from A to B.

  It was a good thing friction hurt the other side, too. Stan recalled a saying. Battle was easy, except that war made the easy difficult. An army that was fifteen percent effective wiped the floor with an army only seven percent effective.

  The Chinese naval infantry were well-trained and had good morale, at least the ones coming up the Number One Highway did. The Chinese had the element of surprise, superior weapons and tech. They had better and more aircraft. The Alaskans knew the terrain better and they had lived with snow and ice all their lives. Most of the Militia and National Guardsmen had hunted or fished in the Kenai Peninsula at least once before.

  If we don’t hold somewhere, we lose. We have to slow them down. It’s only one hundred and nine miles to Anchorage from here.

  The Chinese had first landed at Homer. From there by road, it was two hundred and twenty-six miles to Anchorage. In this past week and a half, the Chinese had already traveled half the distance to the city. Historically, that was a tremendous daily advance.

  The HETS unloaded the tanks and returned to Anchorage. Later, Stan and his tankers briefly contacted the enemy. The tanks waited in a flattened corral as Stan and his men used the latrines in some old buildings nearby. Bill came sprinting to them.

  “Chinese infantry!” Bill shouted.

  “Where?” asked Stan, alarmed.

  Bill unrolled his computer-scroll. “Here,” he said, pointing.

  Stan stared at the scroll, and he looked up. The Chinese were on the other side of that hill over there, the hill with the boulders that looked like three giants huddled together. “What are the Chinese doing out here?” he asked.

  “There’re some Militiamen outside. They’re exhausted and only half of them have weapons. Their lieutenant said the Chinese have been chasing them for half a day. Stan, they’re terrified of the Chinese.”

  “Okay,” said Stan. “We’d better rig a little surprise for them. I still don’t know how those Chinese made it around our lines.”

  “There aren’t any lines out there,” said Bill. “According to the lieutenant, it’s a mess.”

  “If you’re right, it means these Chinese are on their own. Maybe they got too aggressive. Here’s what we’re going to do….”

  Twenty minutes later, using the old buildings for cover, Stan ambushed the Chinese. It turned out there was a platoon of them armed with QBZ-23s and wearing dinylon body-armor. They must have gotten lost and been separated from their battalion. This was simply more friction in action.

  The Chinese looked tired, and they came in a bunch toward the buildings. They probably wanted nothing more than a good rest.

  Stan ordered anti-personnel canisters. When the bulk of the Chinese platoon was halfway between the hill and the buildings, Stan gave the order.

  Hank revved the engine and the tank lumbered out of hiding. So did the other M1A2s. Chinese soldiers hit the ground and began shooting. Jose fired the M256 smoothbore gun and the entire tank shook just as it always did on the firing range. However, this time it rocked Stan more than usual, and the sound of the canister put goosebumps on Stan’s arms. The canister contained hundreds of 9.5mm tungsten balls which spread from the tank’s muzzle like a shotgun blast. The tungsten balls were lethal for two thousand feet, and they mowed down the Chinese, puncturing the body-armor. It was murder as the other tanks opened up.

  The lost platoon never had a chance. Then Bill and his Militiamen opened up. The Chinese twisting in the snow—it was an evil sight. Even so, Stan almost hyperventilated as he shouted.

  After it was over, he told himself: So this is battle. He was glad they’d won, but he wondered if he’d always feel so dirty killing the enemy.

  The company reached their destination several hours later. A regular Army major strengthened a perimeter several miles west of Cooper Landing. He was the highest-ranking officer in the area.

  It seemed like a good place to make a stand. The slush-covered highway ran through the middle of their position. Huge granite slopes to the side of the road funneled attackers straight to them. It would have taken drills to drive foxholes into the stone, so the major had been satisfied putting artillery and mortar spotters behind boulder-strongpoints. It looked precarious on the side of the slopes, but Stan wasn’t going to argue with the man.

  Snow-laden pines stood at the top of the slopes or hills. National Guardsmen were up there, stiffened by Regular Army from the 4th Airborne Brigade ‘Spartans’. Most wore body-armor. Everyone dug foxholes and firing-pits. They were supposed to protect the ATGM-teams.

  ATGM, Anti-Tank Guided Missile, fired from portable launchers. These were old TOW2 launchers, which weighed one hundred and eighty-four pounds. Each missile weighed forty pounds, was shape-charged and better at longer ranges than short.

  Behind the two granite slopes, Militiamen dug foxholes and trenches under the command of Reserve lieutenants and NCOs, Non-Commissioned Officers. Stan thought the position a good one, as the hills and pines helped protect them from attack choppers, unless the helicopters came straight at them. Two miles back were 155mm artillery tubes. There were some mortar-companies closer than that.

  Undoubtedly, the major meant to halt the Chinese here and make them expend artillery shells and short-range missiles trying to dig out the Americans.

  The major had made Stan’s tanks the core of his reaction team. As support, Stan had a National Guard platoon who fired Wyvern SAM launchers. SAM meant Surface to Air Missile. Bill Harris with his twenty Militiamen stayed with the tanks. Most of Bill’s Militia had rearmed themselves with QBZ-23s or they had been issued with grenade-launchers.

  At the moment, Stan stood with the major near his data-net, a group of techs with fold-up tables, chairs and laptops. They fed information into the computers as more news kept trickling in.

  “We need to ambush whatever heavies they’re going to throw at us,” Major Williams said. Williams wore a parka, with dirt smeared on his face. He had a hawkish nose and aggressively thrust his chin forward as if trying to maintain the image of a classic commanding officer. He studied a computer-scroll and gripped an assault rifle with his other hand. They stood under a pine tree that kept creaking as a cold wind blew between the two granite hills sixty feet ahead of them.

  “Is this before or after they saturate us with artillery fire?” asked Stan.

  Williams scowled. “I’m not a magician, son. I don’t know how they’ll react exactly. It’s what they’ve been doing, however. Whenever they hit a strongpoint, they rush up artillery and try to smash through. The raining artillery breaks our Militiamen every time and the National Guard troops about half the time. Seems to me the Chinese are eating up their supplies fast, however, supplies they’ll need to take Anchorage.”

  “We’re not going to let them get to Anchorage, are we, sir?” asked Stan.

  “Do you have any bright ideas on how to stop them?” Williams asked.

  Stan looked around, studying the terrain, particularly how the road behind the trenches curved under a slope about a hundred yards to the rear. He’d been questioning soldiers and militiamen wherever he had the chance. This was such a historical opportunity. He’d been speaking into his recorder in the interests of writing battle memoirs someday. The men who had already faced the Chinese had told him some incredible tales, stories that had scared the crap out of him. By their accounts, the Chinese were ten feet tall and never made a mistake. He was glad for that run-in earlier today. Seeing the Chinese die had bolstered his confidence in these supposedly outdated tanks.

  “Okay, up there,” said Stan, pointing at the slopes behind the defensive position.

  “That’s too far behind the strongpoint,” Williams said.

  “You’ve said it yourself, sir. You don’t think we’re going to hold this spot forever. We’re trying to bleed them and force them to use up precious supplies. I can understand that, sir. It’s good ta
ctics. But how do we save our survivors once they break? They need covering protection in order to get away.”

  “What kind of defeatist talk is that?” shouted Major Williams.

  One of the data-net operators looked up. A scowl from Williams and the man quickly turned back to his computer.

  “I’m only saying that because I’ve been listening to you, sir,” said Stan.

  “Don’t blame me if you want to run.”

  “Sir, as you said, the Chinese are mopping up places like this. They use artillery to make us run. Okay. We didn’t run this time, but instead made them bleed. It’s only logical that they’ll bring whatever heavy vehicles they’ve brought along with them for the second try. They might attempt an overrun assault to drive us from our position.”

  “And how did you come to this glorious conclusion, Captain?”

  “I’ve been talking to everyone I can, sir, learning about the enemy and his habits.”

  “You’re an intelligence officer, are you?”

  “No,” said Stan, “just a soldier.”

  “You’re not even that. You’re just a National Guardsman.”

  The oldest data-net operator muttered, “It was his National Guard tanks that killed a platoon of Chinese, sir.”

  Major Williams glanced at the master sergeant and began nodding. “You’ve got a point, soldier. Sorry,” he told Stan. “I haven’t slept for two days. It wears on you. I’m sick of running, of trying to build a defense and then watching my men sprint away so I have to start running again myself.”

  “We’ve been running, but we haven’t been overrun, sir,” the master sergeant said.

  “Damn straight we haven’t been!” Williams said. With the back of his hand, he rubbed his forehead. “You’re right,” he told Stan. “We’re not going to be able to hold our position here forever. I like your point. Ambush them while they’re chasing us out of here, huh?”

  “Seems like the best time to do it is when they think they’ve got our boys beat. Whatever heavies they have will likely come roaring up to kill us. They’ll think to do it easily. That’s when I send our shells into them. Boom—” Stan said, clapping his hands. “End of the Chinese heavies.”