In an instant, the screen blanked out.
Admiral Ling bowed his head. This was inexcusable. How could the Chairman speak to him this way? After all that he had done for China and done for the Chairman—no. This was unbearable, an insult. He turned to Commodore Yen. “That creature the Vice-Admiral….” Ling’s humiliation was too much now for speech.
“Sir,” Yen said, “You have given your word concerning Anchorage. How can you be so certain you can conquer the Americans?”
Admiral Ling ignored him. He adjusted his computer screen as he studied the situation. He kept noticing the huge fuel depots in Anchorage. The Americans had blown the Seward depot, but the ones here were different. These supplied the Americans. Therefore, the enemy could not afford to blow them. If he could capture the depots, it would solve his fuel problem.
Ling began to nod. He brought up battle charts and force readiness numbers. “I beginning to see the way,” he said.
“Sir?” Yen asked.
“The Chairman has shown me the way. We must storm Anchorage before the Americans rush more reinforcements into the city. Our soldiers rested during the storm. We will now rush forward more supplies as our soldiers use speed, violence and fury to capture the Anchorage fuel depots.”
“They are on the other side of the city, sir,” Yen said.
“With the T-66s we shall smash through everything the Americans put in our way,” Ling said. “Call the ground commanders. I have new orders to give them.”
“May I suggest you first wait an hour, sir?” a worried-sounding Yen asked. “You have…endured hard words today. Maybe it is time for reflection first and action soon thereafter.”
Ling looked up and stared at the careful Commodore. “No you may not suggest such a thing. What you may do is obey my orders.”
Yen’s neck stiffened. After a moment, he stood and saluted. “It shall be as you say, sir.”
***
Some time later, Ling read a brief report from his chief ground commander. The Chinese infantry officers before Anchorage had received their orders as the last of the supplies at the front were divided up. More ammo and food came to the front at a trickle, as the majority of the Number One Highway was still clogged with snow and ice. The officers returned to their sub-commanders, who in turn explained the attack orders to the junior officers. The junior officers spoke to the NCOs. Those gruff men told their soldiers how tomorrow they were going to bring glory to Greater China, win the campaign and the right for each of them to screw the girl of their choice once they returned home as heroes.
BEIJING, P.R.C.
Deep underground in his bunker under Mao Square, the Chairman spoke with Jian Shihong.
“Did you listen to our conversation earlier?” the Chairman asked.
Jian nodded. He’d been ordered to listen. Didn’t the Chairman remember?
“That is how you light a fire under an ancient warrior,” the Chairman said. “Niu Ling conquered Taiwan for me. Now he will give me the rest of Alaska.”
“May I ask you a delicate question, sir?”
“You have given me the oilfields, Jian. You may ask me anything.”
“Did your nephew really say those things, sir?”
Some of the Chairman’s mirth evaporated as he stared at Jian.
I shouldn’t have asked that, Jian told himself. How could I have been so stupid?
“Yes,” the Chairman finally told him, “my nephew said those things.”
“Given that is true, sir, shouldn’t we place your nephew in charge of operations?” There, that ought to satisfy his touchiness.
“Don’t be absurd,” the Chairman said. “Now go,” he said, waving a feeble hand. “I’m tired. We shall talk tomorrow.”
A steel door swished up, and two Lion Guards looked in, giving Jian a hard stare.
Jian wanted to gush his apologies. He was still surprised about General Nung and his victory at Dead Horse. That victory—the other Ruling Committee members now gave Jian greater respect because of it. He knew, however, that the Chairman loved results, not weak words like ‘sorry’ or ‘I shall do better.’ By his response, the Chairman had shown himself sensitive about his family, particularly his inept nephew the Vice-Admiral. Jian would remember that.
“Good day to you, sir.” Jian said. “To victory in Anchorage!”
The irritated Chairman waved him away. The interview was over.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Anna Chen rubbed her eyes as she sat at her desk. She was exhausted from too much work and a growing sense of guilt for what she had unleashed.
She’d moved out of her West Wing cubicle and no longer worked for the Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor. She no longer worked for Colin Green at all. Instead, she had her own West Wing office as the new Chinese Affairs Advisor to the President. She had a three-person staff and direct access to the President. During the continuing crisis, Clark spoke to her an average of three times a day, and that didn’t include the meetings.
Her guilt concerned the nuclear attack in the pristine Arctic environment. Now there had been a second attack. She dreaded the Chairman’s response.
It surprised her Clark hadn’t told her about the latest nuclear attack. She’d learned about it through Alfredo Diaz of the NSA. He’d given her another memory stick, the information only hours old.
Anna clicked a button, replaying the information on her computer. A dark image leaped onto the screen. She was viewing this through the shoulder-cam of a 1st SFG A-Detachment master sergeant. By the shot, the Green Berets soldier must be laying on the pack ice. There were lights in the distance: a vast Chinese supply dump.
“It’s their main base,” the master sergeant whispered, likely into a microphone. “I count thirty snowtanks leaving it.”
Anna listened carefully, studying nuances this time.
“Give us the targeting coordinates.” The voice belonged to the USS Atlanta’s radio operator.
“Hey Sarge!” someone unseen said. Anna assumed it was another Green Berets. “You hear that?”
The scene changed, showing the breathtakingly beautiful night sky with its Northern Lights. The master sergeant must have looked up. Anna heard the unmistakable whomp-whomp of a helicopter.
“They’ve spotted us, Sarge!” A snowmobile started. “Come on! Let’s go!”
“You go,” the master sergeant said. “I’ve still got a job to do.”
Anna wanted to weep as she shook her head. No matter how many times she heard this, she still hoped somehow in her heart that he could escape.
Other snowmobiles whined into life. None of the others tried to argue the master sergeant out of his grim decision. That amazed Anna most of all. The others drove off, the sounds of their engines quickly dwindling.
“That’s it,” the radio operator said after a time. “We have it. Don’t wait around, Sarge.”
Onscreen, Anna witnessed the Chinese lights again, the distant supply dump. That changed as the master sergeant must have looked up. By the sounds, an enemy chopper moved toward him. Then there were sparks in the night. Anna realized now those were Chinese machineguns firing from the helicopter. She heard icy crunching sounds a few seconds later, the bullets striking.
Anna hunched closer, listening carefully.
“Damnit,” the master sergeant said. He must have rolled onto his back. Anna saw the barrel of a weapon appear as it aimed skyward. A second later, the master sergeant grunted, and the scene changed so Anna stared at the ice. In time, his blood trickled into view.
She fast-forwarded. In the distance was the sound of many vehicles.
The Chinese must be fleeing the base.
Suddenly, a nuclear explosion occurred and the video picture shook. It became intensely bright and a shrieking wind began. That wind howled across the pack ice until it stopped abruptly as the video ended.
“It is a terrible thing we do,” a man with a deep voice said.
Startled, Anna looked around. Tanaka, her bodygu
ard, stood just inside her West Wing office. She’d asked Colin Green to transfer Tanaka to her service.
“You should have knocked,” she said.
Tanaka stepped nearer, his eyes locked onto hers.
Something had changed in Anna. She saw in his eyes that he thought she was beautiful. If she looked closely enough, she could see her reflection in his pupils. Once, having a man look at her like this would have made her shiver in dread. Now, with the things she’d been through….
Anna stood up and approached Tanaka. Then she stepped even closer, putting her arms around him as he hugged her. She lifted her head, her lips pressing against his. Then she opened her mouth, and their tongues touched. Anna shivered, but not in dread. Was this love? She didn’t know, maybe. Instead of worrying about it, she continued to kiss the iron-muscled Tanaka.
ANCHORAGE, ALASKA
Stan was in the forward lines as dawn came late the next day as it had been for some time.
There was activity in the Chinese line. Then 200mm self-propelled tubes began to fire. It was thunderous. From a drone’s cam, Stan saw a tank-like vehicle with a long artillery tube shake and rock. The enemy used computer-directed fire control, with target acquisition and laser ranging. Most fired HE shells, High Explosive. Others shot HEAT with guidance systems for homing in on bunkers and command posts. Many had proximity fuses for creating an airburst over the trenches. The falling shells hammered Stan’s area. He crouched in a foxhole, covering his head.
Enemy, barrage missile-launchers added their rockets. Stan could tell by the sound. The rockets were lower velocity than the shells and therefore had lighter casings, able to add more high explosive per projectile. The missile launchers also saturated an area faster, hitting a place in seconds what would take an equal amount of artillery six minutes to achieve.
It was a sweeping, pounding attack, and it lasted a half hour. Afterward, Chinese shells created dense clouds of smoke between the American defenses and the Chinese. Through experience, Stan knew the clouds would last twenty minutes or more. They would also shield the Chinese from thermal sensors.
By his radio, Stan heard the word from a surviving CP. All across the front, the Chinese naval brigades were moving. Marauder tanks led the charge, with IFVs following behind.
Now an American artillery company began to fire. They had arrived from Texas via air to Fairbanks, and had taken the train to Anchorage. Their gun tubes fired artillery-emplaced minefields. The tubes fired and moved to a new location, hopefully before the Chinese counter-artillery could zero in on them. The Americans rained the selected approaches with mines, both anti-personnel and vehicle.
Stan stood up and checked his assault rifle. He had to get back to his tanks. Big oily clouds of smoke billowed before him.
The Chinese charged against a thin crust of American defense located in the outskirts of the city. By the sounds, some of the attackers moved through the emplaced minefields. Others emerged from the choking smoke, looking unscathed.
At that point, the true battle took place. Remaining National Guardsmen, Militiamen and U.S. Army soldiers fought the battle-hardened naval infantry from the East. The Americans hid behind rocks. They waited in buildings and foxholes. The Chinese crawled across the snow or they raced from rock, to shell-hole, to the ruins of a Burger Palace and then to a clump of scarred trees, firing all the time.
Each side had a bewildering array of weapons. Soldiers fired assault rifles, light machineguns, heavy machineguns, threw and fired grenades. The whoosh of recoilless rifles mingled with the sharp retort of exploding mines, often launching the Chinese attackers into the air. The whine of falling trench-mortar rounds, the roar of RPGs, LAWs rockets and the loud slamming noises of ATGMs added to the horror of long, squirting jets of fire hissing from flamethrowers. When the Chinese finally reached American strongpoints, desperate men fired pistols. They stuck enemy soldiers with bayonets. They swung spades whose edges were sharper than axes.
Stan gripped a bloody entrancing tool, having helped clear a trench of attacking Chinese.
Into the tangled mix came helicopters and bombers. Defensive lasers stabbed into the gray sky. Red Arrow shells zoomed upward. Wyvern missiles exploded and the last of the Blowdart tubes expelled their deadly cargos. The caldron of war boiled in Anchorage.
The final battle had begun. The defenders fought for their homes, their mothers, fathers, children and wives. The attackers surely yearned for an end to the icy campaign. Stan knew that many thousands of young Chinese sought marriage permits via the fastest manner possible in China: through martial feats of madness. It was war in the worst sense, man killing man, with the fate of a continent resting on the outcome.
***
Later in the day, the Chinese broke into the city, but the Americans still fought with bitter tenacity. They used the concrete buildings, firing from rooftops and windows. The tactic took a grim toll on the Chinese, until finally the remaining T-66s clanked into battle.
So far, they had been kept in reserve. Now an approach had been cleared to the city and the monstrous, tri-turreted tanks moved. Previous shells and near-miss rockets throughout the weeks had scarred each. From captured enemy soldiers, American Military Intelligence and then Stan had learned that many T-66s had received emergency repairs. An entire Chinese Army regiment had been shipped to Alaska, forty units of the once experimental tank. Like most such tanks, there had been teething problems only discovered in the heat of battle. Weeks of war had brought wear and tear, and that had caused many mechanical breakdowns. Day and night, the mechanics had slaved in order to fix the problems.
It was late in the campaign and after a grim arctic storm. Now, fifteen of the big tanks clanked to add their weight to the Chinese assault. That fifteen came was a testament to Chinese technological effort and hard work.
Fifteen monster tanks used together in close coordination began to blow apart the concrete buildings. American ATGMs scored hits, but no kills. Any Army Rangers trying to crawl near with land mines received a hail of gunfire. The Chinese advance moved deeper into the city.
***
“Are you ready?” Major Philips asked Stan.
During one of the lulls, Stan had made it back to his tanks. Now, several blocks ahead, the fighting was intense. Back here in the financial district, Stan’s three Abrams waited beside five smaller Strykers. Three of the Strykers were armed with grenade launchers. The last two had TOW2 ATGMs.
Stan had expected to work with Ramos, but Philips had informed him the brigadier was presently engaged elsewhere.
Stan hated the T-66s, but he had tasted greater victory against them than anyone else in Alaska still living. “I don’t know about ready,” he said, “but I’ll fight.”
“You won’t fight alone,” a man said.
Stan turned, and he blinked in surprise. It was Sergeant Jackson of the Anchorage Police Department. The police officer wore durasteel body-armor with a combat helmet. An assault rifle was slung on his shoulder.
“What’s going on?” asked Stan. “What are you doing here?”
“The same thing as you,” Jackson said. “I’m fighting for my home.”
“The police are trained at riot control,” Philips said. “It means they’re trained in group action. That should make them better at this than just a group of Alaskans picking up their hunting rifles and taking potshots at the enemy.”
“I know you and I have had our differences,” Jackson said. “That’s over now. We let your dad go along with others. He immediately volunteered.”
“Volunteered for what?” Stan asked.
“It was Brigadier Ramos’s idea,” Philips said. “He spoke last night with General Sims. Afterward, Ramos asked for volunteers among his surviving crews and Militiamen. There weren’t enough. So he went to the jail looking for others. The brigadier is taking a makeshift ferry and crossing over to Hope.”
“Why do that?” asked Stan.
“Both Sims and Ramos agreed that a behind-the-lines rai
d might hurt the enemy supply situation enough to slow him down,” Philips said. “At this point, anything is worth a try. I also think Ramos went because he hates city fighting and much prefers to maneuver against the enemy.”
“Tell me about my dad,” Stan said.
“Sims learned about a huge supply convoy crawling up the Number One Highway,” Philips said. “Our jets won’t be able to fight through the Chinese combat air patrols to get to it. Ramos believes that we can still hit them guerilla-style. Since it was his idea and it’s his specialty, he felt obligated to lead the attack.”
“My dad went with them on this one-way mission?” asked Stan.
“He didn’t have to go,” Jackson said. “We let him out and he was free to go anywhere. He said he wanted to fight.”
Stan thought about that. After a time, he nodded. “That’s my dad,” he said. Mack Higgins was a fighter.
“Okay, Sergeant,” Stan said. “My dad pointed a gun at you once. You could have held that against him. Instead, you let him go. Thanks.” Stan held out his hand. With the Chinese in Anchorage, it was time to bury their differences with each other.
Sergeant Jackson accepted and they shook hands.
“Let’s stop the Chinese,” Stan said.
“I second that,” Jackson said.
“Here’s how we’re going to attempt it,” Philips said.
***
It took a half hour before Stan’s radio crackled, “Here’s our chance.” It was Philips calling.
“Ready?” Stan asked his crew.
“Roger that,” said Jose from the gunner’s seat.
“Heck yeah!” Hank said, his fingers flexing at the Abrams’s steering controls.
“Let’s do it,” Stan radioed back.
“Head up Lincoln Street,” Philips radioed. “It’s coming fast. The T-66 is chasing several Anchorage PD.”
“Okay, this is it,” Stan told Jose. “We have to get close, almost on its ass,” he told Hank.
“I’ll remember to thank a police officer the next time he writes me a ticket,” Jose said. “I wouldn’t want a T-66 on my butt.”
Invasion: Alaska Page 47
