Two men grabbed Bojing and ran. Each step on his bad ankle caused shooting pain.
They barely beat the cracking ice. The plane groaned and shrieked metallically as it slid underwater and out of sight with a tremendous splash. A spray of freezing droplets of seawater wet the back of his head. He hadn’t donned a hood or hat yet, having spent hours inside the plane.
Bojing lay gasping, tasting his own blood as it trickled down his forehead.
“Wrap this around him and set up the distress signal,” a man said.
“What?” Bojing muttered. Then a scarf was wound around his throbbing head. Who would come to get them? They were lost in the middle of the Arctic Ocean and were supposed to keep radio silence. He had a message to bring General Nung, a message to attack the Americans. Bojing cursed this wretched blizzard, this logistics nightmare that was the cross-polar attack.
TALKEETNA, ALASKA
One hundred and twelve miles north of Anchorage was the small town of Talkeetna. It was at the end of the spur road near Mile 99 of the Parks Highway. Talkeetna was small and unpaved, with a Wild West flavor. Denali National Park loomed over the town. In 1917, it had opened as Mount McKinley National Park. In 1980, it had been renamed according to Native traditions. In any case, Denali was more than six million acres of wilderness and was the heart of Alaska with the biggest mountain and the wildest rivers.
There was a U.S. Air Force dirt road in Denali National Park connected to the small town. At the end of the road was a massive complex of building. In them were several nuclear plants to power one of the nation’s strategic Anti-Ballistic Missile pulse-lasers. Nearby was another base with old Patriot missiles and F-16 fighters.
The Talkeetna ABM laser, as it was known, helped protect Anchorage from direct Chinese air assaults. There were two mobile laser batteries protecting Anchorage airport from the airport, but they were small, tactical weapons as compared to the giant pulse-laser near Talkeetna.
Two nights had passed since Admiral Ling’s discussion with Commodore Yen. A special attack group had assembled on the Chinese carriers. The carriers had steamed over four hundred kilometers nearer before the catapults began lofting the bombers, EW craft and fighters.
“Tonight,” said Ling, “we open up the war. By doing so, we will tighten the screws on the Americans.”
Fifteen Ghosts skimmed across the waves as they sped to the west of the Kenai Peninsula. They were the latest in ultra-stealth technology, saucer-shaped craft that seemed to have more in common with people’s perceptions of UFOs than bombers. Anti-radar paint, special radar resistant alloys and computer-constructed planes and shapes hid the sub-sonic bombers from American radar, passive and thermal sensors. For all their sophistication, however, the Ghost S-13s had several critical vulnerabilities. They were slow, poorly armored and needed ultra-advanced AIs to help fly an otherwise un-flyable craft. That in turn meant they were expensive, terribly so.
“You—” Commodore Yen broke off and cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Ling asked. They were in the OBS tonight as they awaited word of the strike’s success or failure.
“It was nothing, sir,” said Yen. “Please, forget I spoke.”
“My friend, do not hold back your views now.”
Commodore Yen seemed to choose his words with care. “We must hope that none of the S-13s crash tonight, lest the Americans gain our secret technology.”
Ling smiled crookedly. “You mean, I’d better not lose any or the Chairman will have my head.”
“I never said that, sir.”
“No,” said Ling. “You didn’t.” The one-armed admiral returned to watching the OBS.
As part of the overall attack, Chinese Mongoose, advanced superiority fighters, waited over Lake Clark National Park, which was well west of Cook Inlet. The Mongooses were almost two hundred kilometers to the south of the Ghosts. EW Anchors cloaked the Mongooses’ presence. The electronic warfare craft circled with the fighters as they watched and waited with everyone else.
The fifteen Ghosts moved in a similar pattern as nap-of-the-earth attack helicopters. They flew along the edge of the Alaska Range, heading deeper inland.
One of the electronic warfare Anchors sent a signal to the Sung supercarrier.
“The Americans are asleep,” said Yen, as he studied the message.
“Maybe,” was all Admiral Ling said.
Time ticked away as darkness concealed the fifteen Ghosts. Strategic ABM sensors were the best. If anything could crack the hidden bombers….
One of the Ghosts wobbled. It was a sign. His instruments must have picked up something. Yes, American radar had grown in strength. The enemy must know something was happening.
“Sir,” said Yen, far back in the Sung. “You must send in the fighters to protect our Ghosts.”
“And lose them all to the ABM laser?” asked Ling. “No, I am not so inclined.”
“But look there, sir,” Yen said, pointing at the OBS. “The Americans are lofting F-15 Eagles.”
“I know what those are. No. We must crack the air-defense net behind Anchorage by taking out their strongest point. We must risk the Ghosts.”
“Need I remind you, sir—”
“You will watch in silence,” said Ling. “That is an order.”
The Commodore hesitated before nodding stiffly.
Meanwhile, the fifteen stealthy bombers neared the giant ABM complex. Above at high combat air patrol was a squadron of nervous F-15s.
The lead Ghost pilot, Captain Peng, checked the stats on his missile. He had one, a bore worm. A remote control operator in China would guide the bore worm into the ABM station and explode it where it would do the most damage. Fifteen bore worms should more than do it.
Can all fifteen of us get in? Captain Peng twisted sharply. On his tac-board…the F-15s were hunting. More precisely an AWACS farther behind was hunting for them. If all the Ghosts could get in firing range, could all of them get back out again?
The targeting sequence started. Captain Peng inched his plane a little higher. Outside, pines whipped past his aircraft. “Now!” he said, pulling the release switch. There was a jolt as the bore worm dropped. A microsecond passed, then afterburners ignited in the missile, and it whooshed off into the night.
If everything had gone right, Captain Peng knew that their missiles had leaped into existence on American radar and thermal sensors, badly surprising the enemy. He banked, lifted to miss pines, and quickly sank again to inches over the canopy. Other bore worms now launched at the strategic ABM station.
“Luck,” said Captain Peng as he started the painful journey home to the carriers.
Fourteen bore worm missiles launched at the ABM station. The fifteenth malfunctioned and tumbled into the Denali National Park.
American anti-missile cannons began firing almost right away. Half the F-15s roared down from CAP, trying to intercept the missiles.
In China, remote controllers worked feverishly. A bore worm went down. A remote controller groaned as simulated death-shocks ran through his convulsing body. Another missile exploded in the darkness, raining molten parts onto the trees and beginning a fire. All the time, the rest of the missiles homed in on the defensive complex with its blazing cannons. Another bore worm died. The Americans were good, better than the Chinese thought they would have been.
Then bore worm missiles reached the Talkeetna ABM complex. The first of seven successful missiles burrowed through the concrete and earthen shields of the plant. They bored—and exploded, knocking out each of the nuclear power-plants and wrecking the focusing mirrors.
The strategic ABM station was badly damaged by the attack. And the wrecked nuclear plants lethally radiated the American base personnel that escaped the initial fireball. The pulse-laser shield of the American air-defense for South Central Alaska was gone.
***
The nearest F-15s went after the slow-moving Ghosts. The Americans knew where they were now, and they were out for blood. Before the J-25 Mongoo
ses arrived, the F-15s shot down eight of the stealth bombers. Then, by direct order of C-in-C Sims, the American fighters turned away from the approaching J-25s. Seeing that the pulse-laser was nothing more than a pile of radioactive rubble, they would need every fighter used in the wisest manner possible if they were going to save Anchorage.
JUNCTION ONE/NINE HIGHWAY, ALASKA
In his torn and dirty parka, Stan Higgins lay on a hill among pine trees. From his hiding spot, he tried to analyze the enemy’s intentions. The Chinese were on lower ground and camped on both sides of the highway.
Stan shivered from cold and lack of sleep. From several miles away, Chinese artillery had bombarded them on and off again all night. His last precious M1A2 tanks—all four of them—were dug in a quarter mile back. Militiamen had chopped down pines. Using the pines and lots of earth, they had constructed low canopies for the tanks, making bunkers. Those bunkers would probably stop anything except for what they needed to—the T-66s.
Thinking about the hardworking Militia building the heavy log roofs, Stan wondered what had happened to Bill Harris, his best friend and pastor of the Rock Church. The last time Stan had seen Bill, the pastor had heaved a sticky mine at a T-66’s tracks.
Shaking his head, Stan tried not to think about Bill. That was many hard battles ago. He’d seen hundreds of Americans die since then and as many Chinese. Every fight was different yet they all ran to a pattern. He shelled the Chinese as they advanced and then he drove away, stopped, fired, and keep driving to the next fortified line. After every battle, new trickles of warm bodies and massive loads of munitions restocked them for the next fight.
As he lay on his stomach, the night turned into a gloomy day. Stan tried to pierce the snowflakes gently falling from the sky. In normal times, this would be too early for snow. But with the new glacial period—
Stan stiffened.
“Something wrong, Professor?” Jose asked.
Stan nodded, seeing something he didn’t like.
The Chinese had been pressing even harder lately. Last night, however, there had been a pause in the fighting, a longer one than usual. The snow might have something to do with that.
Adjusting the binoculars, Stan looked closer at Chinese soldiers with snow-shovels. They cleared the main road, Highway One. Craning his neck, squinting at them, Stan tried to make out their insignia. …ah, it showed a leopard on the patch and said 125th. That’s what troubled him, a new group of Chinese had moved up. That was always a signal for another hard push.
From the woods, a muffled shot rang out. Several such shots did. One of the Chinese shoveling snow, pitched over. The others ran back into the sheltering snowfall. The moment of idyllic grace was over. American sharpshooters crawled in the woods, sniping Chinese whenever they got the chance. The Chinese reacted to sniper fire with predictable heavy-handedness.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Stan, as he slid down their side of the hill. “The Chinese artillery will probably open up any second now. Go!”
Jose and Stan floundered through the snow as they ran downhill. They raced out of the no-man’s-land between the two lines and back for their side. Sure enough, about halfway there, Chinese mortar-fire began peppering the woods. Stan ran harder and his heart pounded, from this point on their lines were upslope on higher ground. Behind him, he heard crackling branches and loud thumps.
“Well?” shouted a panting Jose. “Was crawling to the Chinese to gain a forward look worth it?”
“Ask me...in a few,” panted Stan. Steam poured from his mouth.
Soon, they reached their line and jumped into a trench. U.S. Army soldiers looked up. One sergeant cursed, as Stan had kicked over his coffee pot.
“Sorry,” said Stan.
“Thanks again, sir,” the sergeant said, picking up the pot and setting it back on his tiny stove.
Stan looked over his shoulder, listening for anything unusual. Now that he’d made it back to their line, the enemy mortar-fire had quit. Murphy’s Laws made themselves felt all the time at the front. Stan took several minutes to catch his breath. Then he headed down the trench for the commander’s hut.
“What are you going to report?” asked Jose, who followed him.
“That I’ve spotted a new battalion or a new brigade. That’s probably why they didn’t attack last night. They must have traded places with the Chinese forces that were attacking us before.”
“And now it’s going to be the big push?”
“They’ve all been big pushes.”
“You know what I mean,” said Jose. “Everyone keeps talking about the big one. It’s in the Chinese interest to obliterate us so they can drive the rest of the way to Anchorage in peace.”
“Well,” said Stan, “you can read a map as good as I can. We’re guarding the Junction, right?”
Jose nodded.
“If we lose the Junction, it means everyone holding Highway Nine has to retreat. Otherwise, the enemy can move down Highway Nine and crush our forces from behind. From what I hear, what’s left of the 1st Stryker Brigade is getting jumpy. Their commander doesn’t think we can hold.”
“You know him don’t you?”
“Brigadier Hector Ramos?” asked Stan. “I sure do. He’s among the best we have.” He frowned then and turned to Jose. “If I were the Chinese commander, I’d have unleashed the big push yesterday.”
“Good thing we had this snow then.”
“It slows them down,” admitted Stan. “It also looks like they used the time to reorganize, just like we used it to rest and get another trickle of reinforcements in place.”
“You hear about the new Abrams coming?”
Stan nodded. “It will be good to have other tanks in the sector with us. I’m hoping to talk with their commander and tell him what we’ve learned.”
“Good idea,” said Jose. “Look. There’s the colonel.”
“I’ll be back in a few,” said Stan, who hurried after the CO who ducked into his command hut.
***
The snow fell heavier the rest of the morning. Each flake was big and wet, and together they clogged every road and path. Stan along with others heard rumors about a big air attack that had occurred somewhere deep in Alaska, but neither he nor anyone else knew what it had been about.
Around two in the afternoon as the snow began to lessen, twenty M1A3 U.S. Army Abrams tanks rolled into the rear area of their sector. Soldiers whooped with delight upon seeing them.
“The cavalry has arrived,” a tanned Major Fred Benson told the colonel in Stan’s presence.
The colonel had his data-net team here and spoke to Major Benson and to Stan and the other officers, explaining the situation. Benson spoke up more and more often, offering suggestions. He and his tanks had flown in from California, landing in Fairbanks, taking the train to Anchorage and motoring the rest of the way down Highway One.
After listening to one too many of Benson’s suggestions, the colonel turned to the Californian major. “I’m not sure you have a full grasp of the situation yet.”
“Of course I do,” said Benson. “The Chinese have been giving you boys a hard time. Well, that’s ‘cause they have tanks and you didn’t.”
“We have Abrams tanks,” the colonel said. “His.” He pointed at Stan.
Benson’s tanned features were skeptical. “Begging your pardon, Colonel, but he’s National Guard.”
“Do you have something against them?”
“Not a thing,” said Benson. “But we’re trained tankers and have the latest modifications. We also have the newest Army ordnance. We’ll blow these big Chinese tanks out of the way for you.”
“They have 175mm guns,” said Stan.
“I’ve read the specs,” Benson said. “They don’t impress me much.”
“A hit from them will take out an Abrams,” said Stan.
“The trick is tactical maneuver,” Benson said. “Those Chinese monsters are slow. My babies are quick and we don’t plan to wait for them to attack us.
”
“The T-66s are fast on the road,” Stan told him. “They have retractable wheels.”
Benson waved his hand. “I’m talking about off-road movement. My Abrams will run rings around them, if it comes to that. I have the newest long-range rounds. So—ka-boom,” said Benson. “No more T-66s.”
Stan began shaking his head.
“Do you even know anything about the new sabot rounds?” asked Benson.
Stan rattled off their statistics, which caused Benson to raise his eyebrows.
“We call him the Professor,” the colonel said. “There’s a reason for that. If you want to know anything military, you ask him.”
Stan reddened at the compliment.
“I’ll stick to the latest tanker tactics,” Benson said.
“This isn’t the Mojave Testing Ground,” the colonel said. “This is Alaska, and the Chinese are good.”
“The Chinese have never been good with armor.” Major Benson grinned confidently. “Gentlemen, I can see the Chinese have you rattled. And I don’t blame you. But that’s going to change now, let me tell you. The cavalry has arrived and we’ll blow those mother-lovers away for you. I only ask one thing.”
“What is that?” the colonel asked dryly.
“A long field of fire and some maneuvering room,” Benson said.
“That’s two things,” the colonel said. “But never mind. Can you help him arrange that, Professor?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stan.
The colonel glanced around at them. He nodded crisply. “I suspect the Chinese are going to open up soon. So let’s get ready to greet them. I dearly hope you know your trade, Major Benson. The fate of Alaska might well depend upon it.”
“Sir?” asked Benson.
“We have to keep the Junction open long enough for the 1st Stryker Brigade and their Militiamen to leapfrog back with us. We can’t afford to lose them. So we hold here until further orders.”
“Hold?” Benson said. “I plan to attack.”
“You’ll do what I order you to do,” the colonel said with heat.
Major Benson nodded, but his smirk said he had his own plans.
Invasion: Alaska Page 37
