“How will we re-supply you then?” asked Bojing.
“Submarines and icebreakers seem like the vessels of choice.”
“What you’re saying, General—this is no longer a taskforce meant to conquer the North Slope, but to raid it.”
“Maybe you’re right,’ Nung said. “Whatever I do, I start today.”
“You will need air cover,” said Bojing.
Nung nodded. “See to it, but make sure you launch the first fifty snowtanks. If you find that you cannot, then send thirty tanks. I want something coming to reinforce what I take.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good luck, Bojing,” Nung said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Good luck to you, sir. I dearly hope you grab the oilfields as you grabbed Yakutsk in Siberia.”
“That, my good friend, is exactly what I intend to do.”
DEAD HORSE, ALASKA
“It’s like this,” the Marine captain told the hard-eyed civilians seated in the room. They wore parkas and woolen hats, many cradling rifles between their knees. “We can wait for the enemy to hit us in Dead Horse and maybe blow the wells. Or we can attack the Chinese on the ice and finish it out there.”
Paul Kavanagh glanced around at the others in the room. Everyone sat on benches, as this was a makeshift church in a Quonset hut. The Marine captain stood in front of the podium, not behind it where a priest of preacher would have been. Some of the seated where like Paul and Red Cloud, Blacksand mercenaries. Some were local hard cases.
After the nuclear explosion, Pilot Pete had taken them to Dead Horse. The Marine captain had interviewed Paul and Red Cloud for several days. After being cleared, Paul had wanted to call his ex and son, but there was no connection to the outside world expect by Marine radio.
Captain Bullard presently glared at the assembled civilians. He was a typical-looking Marine. He seemed a little older and was tough, with an I-can-kick-your-butt kind of attitude showing by the way he stood. In his talks with the man, Paul had found Bullard easy to deal with because the Marine told it like it was.
Bullard now puffed out his chest, scowling at the crowd. “I know this is going to surprise you. There’s been a foul-up because everything at the moment in terms of reinforcements is going to Anchorage. No matter what else happens here, the President and the Joint Chiefs want our boys to keep the Chinese from taking Anchorage. Seems like our naval counterparts from the East have fought through everything the Army and Alaskan National Guard could throw at them. Therefore, everything in terms of reinforcements is landing at Fairbanks. The mother of all snowstorms is blanketing Anchorage and the Kenai Peninsula that the Chinese have been using as a springboard. The storm will let up any day now, and then the last battle for Alaska will take place. At least, that’s how Fox News is playing it and we know they never make mistakes.”
There was a laugh and several snorts from the crowd.
“What’s any of that got to do with us?” Paul asked from the back.
“You used to be in the Marines, is that right?” asked Bullard.
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Bullard swept his gaze over the others. “This man fought in Quebec, if I remember what he told me, against the French-Canadians.”
“Yeah,” Paul said.
“In fact, you fought against men like your boss, Red Cloud.”
More than one person on the benches turned to stare at Paul and Red Cloud.
“Listen up,” Bullard said, “and I’ll tell you what that has to do with us. The Army shipped us some of their new winter fighting suits. Unfortunately, they forgot to add any soldiers with them. Now I have a handful of Marines, and most of them have to keep guard here on orders of the Joint Chiefs. But I need warm bodies to shove into those suits so they can help me kick butt against the Chinese. We have a few planes here, and they’ve spotted over a hundred hovertanks converging on Dead Horse. There’s probably more behind them. I want to stop those lead hovers before they disgorge Chinese infantry onto Alaskan soil.”
“Hovertanks,” Paul said. “They’re made for maneuvering on the ice.”
“Thank you oh so much for the update,” Bullard said. “What I want to know, Marine, is whether you have any balls left. Or did they get frozen off on your little stroll across the ice?”
Paul thought about Murphy staring out of the snowcat’s window. He thought about his promise. “Are these winter suits any good?” asked Paul.
“Do you want to find out?”
“Yeah,” Paul said. “I do.”
“What about you, Red Cloud? Are you going to let a Marine outdo a French-Canadian?”
“I’m Algonquin.”
“Same question then,” Bullard said, “just put whatever you said in place of French-Canadian.”
Red Cloud glanced at Paul.
“You don’t have to do this,” Paul whispered.
Red Cloud gave him a ghost of a smile. “We are brothers of the ice. Where you fight, I fight.” He turned to the captain. “I will don these winterized suits.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Bullard said. “What about you others? Do any of you have balls, or are you a bunch of sissies who want to wait for the boy-raping Chinese to come and squeeze you?”
“Are we walking out to meet them?” asked Paul.
“Not a chance. We have a few Marine choppers. We’ll use those to put you down at exactly the right spot.”
“I have one request after we’re done,” Paul said.
“Name it.”
“I want to use your radio to patch through to California to talk to my wife and kid.”
“If you’re alive after the little skirmish, you have my word on that.”
Paul nodded, deciding he liked the blunt captain. He wasn’t so happy about going back on the ice, but the vision in his head of Murphy staring out of the cat’s window didn’t give him much choice in the matter.
NORTH SLOPE, ALASKA
The pack ice high over Prudhoe Bay was at the extreme range of the ABM lasers in China, at least while using their protected space-mirrors. Those mirrors were situated over China’s heartland, thereby keeping them well out of range of all American weapons except for killer satellites. The ABM lasers had shot down every high-flying, long-distance GPS drone the U.S. Air Force had sent up in this region. It took time, however, for the Chinese to locate a newly-launched drone.
The latest GPS drone now flew at the edge of the North Slope, miles high in the atmosphere. Through passive thermal and infrared sensors, it spotted the hovertanks. They moved rapidly across the frozen Beaufort Sea as they approaching the Alaskan coast.
The drone’s remote-controller activated its radar to get an exact fix on the hovers. Because of the radar, it discovered the Chinese fighters flying combat air patrols to the rear of the hovertanks and the bombers farther behind them. The remote-controlling station was in Fairbanks, Alaska. The ice-age blizzard over Anchorage was less powerful here, making it possible to use the runways. The controller waited for C-in-C Sims to make his decision from the CP in Anchorage.
General Sims examined the data, he said, “This is it: the attack we’ve been dreading.” He lowered his chin onto his chest as he thought through the implications. When he raised his head, he said, “Launch the Reflex fighters.”
“How many of them, sir?” his air chief asked.
Sims spoke softly as he said, “All of them.”
The air chief swiveled around to stare at him.
Half the nation’s Reflex air-superiority fighters had been flown to Fairbanks. Fighter was a misnomer, as each jet was larger than a Galaxy cargo plane. Each carried an ultra-hardened mirror on the bottom of the aircraft, the reflex of the unique battle system. The laser came from the nearest, nuclear-powered ABM station. That laser would bounce its beam off the plane’s hardened reflex mirror, which when calibrated exactly should hit and destroy the target. The pulse-laser was so powerful, however, that it quickly burned through the hardened reflex mirror. Th
at made the giant fighter inoperable until a new mirror was fit into place. The first Reflex fighter moved down the extra-long runway. A handful of others waited their turn. Afterward, an AWACS would follow and then two electronic warfare drones.
The primary function of Chinese COIL planes and American Reflex fighters was to destroy theater and tactical nuclear missiles during flight. The secondary function was to destroy cruise missiles. Lastly, they targeted enemy aircraft and drones.
The Reflex fighters lifted from Fairbanks and climbed into the atmosphere, gaining the needed height. Then the nearest ABM station was called and its giant pulse-laser readied.
The first battle for the North Slope began fifteen minutes later. A strategic ABM laser in Xing Province of China stabbed its beam into the heavens and reflected off a space-mirror. In seconds, it cut down the American recon drone.
Nine and a half minutes later, the American Reflex fighters struck back. The giant station outside of Fairbanks stabbed its ferocious beam off the first airborne mirror. Like a banking billiard ball, the laser flashed across the State and over the pack ice. The first pulse stabbed into the Arctic night and burned down a regular Chinese fighter. The second pulse missed, while the third blinded a Chinese pilot, causing his J-25 Mongoose to veer off-course. Those pulses caused a warning light to flash inside the first Reflex fighter, telling the crew that the mirror had taken damage. With each proceeding pulse-strike, the odds would increase of a burn-through against the plane. The ABM station was informed of this as the pilot banked the giant plane and began the long approach back to base. The next airborne reflex mirror moved up, and the sequence started again.
Unaware that the Americans only possessed a handful of reflex planes, the Chinese fighters on CAP over the hovertanks engaged afterburners. They hit the deck, jinking wildly and speeding back to base. It meant that for a short time, anyway, the hovertanks lacked air cover.
ARCTIC OCEAN
General Shin Nung shook his head as his radio officer informed him of the fleeing Mongooses, those that had been carefully winterized for fighting in the Arctic Circle.
“Let them go,” Nung said. Outside, the pack ice flashed past in a blur. It was dark and the stars glittered in amazing profusion. All around him roared a little over a hundred hovertanks. Behind followed thirty sleds with extra fuel, supplies and infantry. The formation was spread across the ice, moving like a winter armada of dark ships.
The hover’s engine-whine made speech difficult inside the vehicle. It was why Nung and his officers wore headsets over their ears and spoke into microphones.
“Sir!” shouted his communications officer, who watched a screen. “American strike-craft are zeroing in on us.”
“Of course they are,” Nung said. “It’s why they used their lasers to chase off our covering fighters.” He nodded. The Siberians had lacked such sophisticated hardware as the Americans possessed, but his tanks back then hadn’t been outfitted with such advanced munitions.
“Tell the troops to form up in a hedgehog formation and load their guns with Red Arrow anti-air rounds.”
Twelve minutes later, the American bombers made their charge, screaming across the ice from the front and two sides.
By now, the hovertanks had edged closer together by lance and by troop. Three hovertanks made a lance. Three lances made a troop.
As the Americans launched their air-to-ground missiles, the advanced defense radars on the hovertanks achieved lock-on. With the radars, the hovertanks used a new Interlock fire control system. It allowed twenty or more hovers to form into a single, anti-air defense, concentrating missiles, cannons and machineguns for attack. Once vulnerable to mass destruction from air, hovers and tanks created deadly destruction zones in a range up to 3000 meters. In lance volleys, 76mm guns fired Red Arrows rounds. The rocket-assisted shells whooshed upward after the American bombers.
There were hits all around. American missiles zoomed low and slammed into hovertanks. On the ice, hovers exploded into blazing fireballs, showering melting plastic, Kevlar, burning aluminum and bloody body-parts. Meanwhile, smoking bombers crashed from the sky. As it impacted, each bomber disintegrated into a mass of shrieking metal and splashed jet-fuel. The pack ice groaned as it splintered. Then red-hot sparks caused ignition so the fuel blazed fiercely, sometimes melting through the ice and exposing the dark water underneath.
Nung watched his screen as outer cameras recorded the bright points of destruction. Here more than elsewhere, the modern rule of combat prevailed. What one saw, one could kill. This was going to be costly. He struck his armrest. He—
“Sir!” the communications officer shouted. “The bombers are breaking off.”
General Nung sat up in his command chair. Was it possible the Americans possessed so few aircraft that they were unwilling to trade planes for hovers? On impulse, he lurched up to the commander’s hatch. Raising it, he shoved his head into the plastic-covered copula. It was colder up here, but the plastic bubble quickly filled with the compartment’s heat. He looked back into the darkness. Behind him, hovertanks burned on the ice. So did a few sleds. Fortunately, the majority of the taskforce kept advancing across the vast white sheet of terrain.
Sliding down from his copula and into the main cab, Nung asked, “Do they have anything else to throw at us? Or did a single taste of our anti-air rounds prove too much for the Americans?”
The communications officer listened closely to those sending information. He put a hand over one of his earmuffs before turning to Nung. “If my data is correct, sir, we took out nearly a third of their bombers. I don’t think the Americans liked that.” The man grinned. “Our Red Arrows are better than anything they possess.”
“We are Chinese,” Nung said, as if that explained everything. He turned to his special monitor. A quick count showed that he still had eighty-three hovertanks. That was more than enough for what he had planned. The Americans must be stretched to the breaking point. Yes, most of their aircraft would be on the Southern Front against Anchorage. He should have attacked sooner. That fool Yongzheng.
“One pass and the Americans bolted,” Nung said. Smiling, he added, “Who said these Americans aren’t Siberians? Well, let me tell you something. Whoever said the two aren’t the same is wrong. A frightened man always acts similarly—he runs away. The Americans are running. Gentlemen, we have them.”
PRUDHOE BAY, ALASKA
“Go, go, go!” roared the Marine at the bay door of the whomping helicopter. The whirling blades whipped up bits of ice and snow, and it blew down freezing air.
Paul jumped out in his winterized suit. His boots hit the pack ice with a jarring crunch, causing his teeth to click together. That was too close—he’d almost bitten off his tongue. Next time he’d remember to keep his mouth closed.
Red Cloud landed beside him.
“Don’t forget your launcher!” the Marine roared from the open door.
Paul nodded. The white winter suit was an amazing piece of equipment. They could have used something like this in Quebec. It covered him from head to toe like an old style knight. A lot of the suit’s outer skin was armor, but it was light. Even better, it had a temperature gauge, keeping him warm with a thermal heater. That took battery power, and that battery and mini-generator he carried on his back. There was even a Heads Up Display on his visor.
How the suits got shipped up here without troops I’ll never know. I don’t care. I’m just glad I get to wear it.
Red Cloud and he wrestled a special TOW2 sled off the bottom of the chopper. Once done, Paul stepped into the pilot’s view and waved his arm.
The chopper’s engine roared with greater life and the blades whirled like mad. The machine lifted a little higher and banked hard. It would deposit two more TOW2 crews before it returned home to Dead Horse.
Here I am again, stuck on the ice again.
“Don’t engage the motor,” Red Cloud said.
“Hey, I have ears too you know? I heard what Bullard told us before leavin
g.”
Red Cloud didn’t bother answering, but looked around. He pointed in the near distance.
Paul saw it, a small pressure ridge. “Perfect,” he said.
Each of them grabbed a line and towed their missile-launching sled into position. The winter suits were the latest. Their ATGM was as old school as it came. It was a long tube with controls and extra TOW2 missiles. TOW stood for Tube-launched, Optically-tracked, Wire command data link, guided missile. Actually, to be precise, theirs was a TOW-2B Aero. The special nosecone increased the missile’s range to forty-five hundred meters. The missile was simple to operate. You found the target on the scope and fired. The missile popped out of the launcher, ignited and sped toward the target at 278 miles per second. As one kept the optical sensor on the enemy, an electronic signal ran up the two trailing wires uncoiling from the missile and adjusted the missile’s flight as necessary. It carried a thirteen-pound HEAT warhead. Their M220 launcher had thermal optics so they could see the targets in the Arctic darkness.
After setting up the launcher, Paul waited, checking his watch. Then he stood up and lifted a flare. The orange light was bright in the darkness. A flare burned into existence to the left about fifty yards away and to the right of their position maybe seventy yards.
“I think they got our message,” Paul said.
“Yes,” Red Cloud said.
Paul cut the end of the flare so it would burn out faster and then dropped it.
“Now we wait,” Red Cloud said.
“Wonderful,” Paul said.
They didn’t have long to wait. Marine Captain Bullard had decided to play this one for keeps. He’d ordered the choppers to set up the thin line as close to the approaching hovertanks as possible. The single bomber pass had served two purposes. Firstly, it had kept the enemy occupied. Secondly, it had allowed them to set up the launchers in secret. Bullard had known all about the Red Arrow anti-air rounds, hating them immensely.
Invasion: Alaska Page 44
