Stan shoved up out of the hatch. He had his commander’s microphone jutting in front of his mouth. He wore durasteel body-armor, and he listened to the Abrams’s heavy clank as the tank moved into position. City buildings rose all around them. The M1A2s were great tanks—twenty years ago. Now the T-66 held the technological edge, and it was coming up Lincoln Street toward them.
Through his microphone, Stan shouted orders to the other two Abrams as they took up ambush positions nearby. Farther behind on the street, Philips’s Strykers waited to act as further bait if needed.
Then three police officers in combat gear sprinted around the corner. Stan was close enough to wave to Sergeant Jackson. The officer clutched his assault rifle as total concentration filled his face. Behind him—Stan heard heavy treads crushing pavement. Then the side of an old brick building exploded masonry. A monster tank burst into sight.
“Inch us back,” whispered Stan.
Hank did, moving the Abrams behind a building and taking the T-66 out of sight.
What happened next was hidden from Stan as he waited. Chinese machineguns chattered. A man shouted in English, no doubt an Anchorage police officer. Then a TOW missile streaked up the street. By the sound, it splashed against the T-66’s heavy armor.
“Come on,” Stan whispered. “Keep attacking.”
Then he heard the enemy tank. It fired two 175mm guns. They were two deafening booms. The shells whooshed past his ambush site and down the street at the Strykers.
At the Stryker bait, Stan thought. He didn’t hear the sound of exploding vehicles. So maybe Philips’s bait had moved quickly enough to survive.
“It’s coming,” Stan heard Philips say through his headset.
“Get ready!” Stan shouted through the hatch.
Seconds later, a huge stone gray-colored Chinese T-66 moved in front of them. Stan slid down the hatch and slammed the steel lid into place. At the same moment, Jose fired a sabot round. A terrific explosion rocked the Abrams.
“Are we hit?” Stan shouted, his ears ringing from the sound.
“I don’t think so,” said Jose.
Stan thrust his forehead against his scope. He peered at a burning T-66.
“You killed this one from point blank range,” Philips said over the radio. “But there’s another two coming, so you’d better move. We don’t want to lose your Abrams just yet.”
“Let’s go,” Stan told Hank. “We’re moving to live again and fight in another place.”
“Roger that,” said Hank, as he began revving the M1A2’s engine.
“Major Philips,” Stan said over the radio.
“Yes?”
“Tell Sergeant Jackson and his fellow police officers that they did good, very good.”
“Will do,” Philips said. “Now let’s get moving to the next ambush site.”
JUNCTION ONE/ NINE, ALASKA
Under Ramos’s command, a few Army soldiers, Alaska Militiamen with hard-case State prisoners took a ferry and crossed the trickery Turnagain Arm of the Cook Inlet. In jeeps, snowmobiles and four-wheel drive pickups they overwhelmed the few Chinese soldiers in Hope. Then they moved down Highway One to the Junction of Highway Nine and Moose Pass. There they met the lead elements, including snowplows, of the giant supply convoy heading for Anchorage.
***
“Where do they come from?” shouted Wang.
First Rank Lu Po lay in the snow beside his friend. Behind them, trucks and transports burned. Chinese helicopters were on their way. On the hill before them, American TOW2s continued to flash across the distance and hit yet more munitions trucks, causing tremendous explosions.
“We earn our glory now,” Lu told his White Tigers in their combat suits.
“There’s no more glory here,” said Wang. “High Command will skin us for allowing the supply convoy’s destruction.”
“Nonsense,” said Lu. “The Americans hit part of the convoy, not all. We must give them enemy heads or High Command will demand ours. We will fade into the trees and flank the hill.”’
“By that time the convoy will be destroyed,” said Wang.
“Follow me,” said Lu, as he rose in a bent crouch and sprinted for the trees.
***
Brigadier Ramos heard the Chinese bombers. He leaped off the altered pickup truck and sprinted for the trees.
The truck was called a technical. The term had been derived in Somalia during the 1990s when certain non-governmental agencies had paid gunmen to protect them. The gunmen were paid out of a technical assistance grant. The chief fighting vehicles were modified Toyota pickups, and soon the word technical came to be applied to any machinegun-carrying truck. Such technicals had been used to great effect by the nomads of Chad when they’d fought the Libyans. The Libyans had used Soviet tanks and hardware. The Chad militiamen primarily used Toyota pickups with an M2 Browning, a recoilless rifle or a light anti-air gun bolted on. In the Sahara Desert, the light trucks with their great mobility had given the Chad militiamen the victory. That victory had caused many to dub the fight the Great Toyota War.
Today, Hector Ramos’s hastily-gathered technicals had hurt the enemy. Now Chinese jets streaked above. Small canisters tumbled from them. Ramos buried his head in the snow as the canisters hit and whooshed with jellied napalm. Heat blazed against his skin. The canisters had missed the center part of their team.
Ramos began to rise when he heard a noise behind him. He shouted, scrambled to his feet and cut down several Chinese soldiers with his assault rifle. They’d been about to kill an old man.
“Are you Colonel Higgins?” Ramos shouted.
The old man blinked at him. Finally, he nodded.
“Follow me!’ shouted Ramos. “We have more enemy to kill.”
“Aliens,” the old man said.
“Right!” shouted Ramos. “They’re alien invaders.”
The two men sprinted to a pickup. The front windshield had been blown away, the glass killing the passengers. Ramos and Mick Higgins dragged the corpses out.
“I’ll drive,” said Ramos.
Mack grunted as he climbed into the pickup bed. Below were burning Chinese vehicles. To the side of the hill—
“Over there!” shouted Mack. “I see Chinese soldiers in the trees.”
“Those are White Tiger Commandos,” Ramos said. He started the pickup, revved it and shouted, “Are you ready?”
“Go!” Mack shouted.
Ramos floored the accelerator and cranked the steering wheel. Then the pickup climbed the side of the hill as he aimed the vehicle at the White Tigers.
***
First Rank Lu Po, the hero of the San Francisco attack, lay in the snow. He took aim, firing at the crazy Americans in the pickup. An old man stood in back. The man had wild hair and he was laughing, swinging the heavy machinegun from side-to-side.
Beside Lu, Wang coughed blood and died.
“You shall suffer because of that,” Lu said. Before he could align his shot perfectly, three .50 caliber bullets smashed into him. They tore his body, instantly killing the hero of the San Francisco carrier attack.
***
“We did it,” Ramos said several minutes later.
The road below burned with Chinese trucks and commandeered vehicles. There were more vehicles and more Chinese soldiers coming, but this raid should hurt the other side, maybe enough to affect the present battle for Anchorage.
Then a Chinese attack helicopter rose into sight above the trees.
Directly behind him, Ramos heard the loud, chugging noise of the .50 caliber machinegun. Instead of diving into the snow and trying to escape, Mack Higgins tried to destroy the chopper.
A missile flashed from the helicopter’s wing.
“Ave Maria,” Ramos said, as he watched the missile streak at him. Then their technical exploded, and the two men died.
PRUDHOE BAY, ALASKA
Paul Kavanagh waited with Red Cloud in a gully on Cross Island. Before them was a wide expanse of pack ice. Behind were
low mounds of frozen tundra, with deceptive dips and gullies everywhere. A cold wind blew, although Paul was immune to its bite just now. Particles of snow blew like sand across the desolate ice. It hurt visibility, but it was nothing like a ‘whiteout.’ Cross Island, along with several other small pieces of rock and tundra, guarded the approach to Dead Horse.
A Marine lieutenant had found them and the other American survivors against the hovertank pack-ice attack. The lieutenant had slipped out of Dead Horse with five hard-bitten Marines. He had rendezvoused with the last two helicopters. Instead of flying away, the lieutenant had landed on the ice, giving Kavanagh and the others badly needed supplies. Then he’d recharged their fighting suits. Afterward, the lieutenant had sent one of the choppers north, hunting for the enemy. It had never returned. Before its destruction, however, the helicopter crew had radioed the lieutenant information. They’d found a battle-group of snowtanks heading for Dead Horse. The enemy advance would take them to Cross Island. Likely, the Chinese commander wanted to reach tundra as soon as possible so he could get off the ice, even if for a little while.
“I know this a risk,” the lieutenant told Paul two hours ago. “But this is critical. The Chinese hold Dead Horse, but not in strength. The approaching snowtanks would triple Chinese combat power there. So I think we should hit them now and keep them from joining.”
Paul glanced at Red Cloud before he told the lieutenant, “Captain Bullard said he’d give me a link to California once this was over.”
“Bullard’s dead, but I’ll see what I can do. Just give me a few more days. I know this is your specialty. The Corps needs you.”
That’s how Paul had let himself be talked into this desperate plan. Crazy. They were just a handful of weary men, less than fifty against thirty snowtanks, accompanying infantry on sled-carriers and supply caterpillars. Neither side appeared to have air, other than the lieutenant’s remaining helicopter. They did have these Arctic fighting suits, and fully-charged again.
“I see something,” Red Cloud said. As he lay on his stomach, the Algonquin used a thermal tracker. “It’s the Chinese.”
Paul slid to the M220 Launcher. They had taken it off the sled and set it up here in the gully.
“Wait,” Red Cloud said. “They’re stopping and they’re still out of range.”
“What are they thinking?” Paul asked.
“Nothing good,” Red Cloud said.
More than ever, Paul wanted to crawl to the helicopter and fly out of the Arctic Circle. He wanted to see sunlight again. The Marine lieutenant thirsted for revenge, however. All he could think about was killing Chinese. With two helicopters, they could have been ferrying the survivors to somewhere on the coast. Instead, Paul found himself laying in the Arctic darkness in a gully, facing thirty snowtanks with infantry support. He hated these odds.
“Come on you bastards,” he said. “What are you waiting for?”
His fingers itched as he touched the TOW launcher’s firing mechanism. The Arctic night was a lonely world. Murphy must have been lonely those last hours lying in a cold snowcat. Paul still couldn’t understand why the Chinese had to gun-down oilmen working a rig. That had been murder.
“What are they waiting for?” Paul asked.
“We will find out soon enough,” Red Cloud said.
***
Lieutenant-General Bojing was in charge of the Chinese taskforce stopped on the ice. He had fled from the main base on the pack ice four hundred kilometers north of Alaska. That base had vanished in a mushroom cloud of radioactive destruction. The Americans had used another nuclear-tipped torpedo.
Bojing had fled in a tracked sled, much like a giant snowmobile. He had coolly considered his options. If he returned to Siberia, he would no doubt take the blame for the base’s destruction. He had been the officer-in-charge. He should have defended the base better. He considered General Nung, who had fought his way into Dead Horse. The general had little logistical ability, yet Nung had consistently advanced in rank. It was then that Bojing knew what he would do. He’d gather the survivors of the nuclear attack and join the thirty snowtanks heading for Dead Horse. He would re-supply General Nung. Perhaps the brash general could produce another miracle. Nung had done so before. Yet in order to produce a miracle, Nung needed more troops. These troops Bojing brought him.
“We are awaiting your orders, sir?” the officer in charge of the snowtanks radioed him.
In his command sled, Bojing fretted. He was a logistics officer, not a combat fighter. There were American soldiers on the island. The soldiers could spot for another submarine. On all accounts, Bojing knew he must get his troops onto dry land and off the pack ice. After seeing the mushroom cloud expand in the Arctic darkness, Bojing had come to dread the possibility of a third nuclear-tipped torpedo.
“Sir?” radioed the commander of the snowtanks. “It is inadvisable to just sit here and wait.”
Bojing knew that a bad order given strongly was better than dithering back and forth. “Dismount the infantry,” he said. “They will clear the way for your tanks.”
“Yes, sir!” the snowtank officer said.
Bojing nodded to himself. The snowtanks had to crawl over the ice. Their weight was too great for them to move at speed. If they did, the tanks would create violent wave-action under the ice. If the waves moved too violently, they would crack the ice and the tanks would fall into the freezing water. That limitation had been one of the debilitating factors of the trek from Siberia to Alaska. Once the snowtanks reached the tundra, however, they would easily be the most powerful vehicle in this nightmare land.
I hope I have made the correct decision, Bojing thought. I must give General Nung the means so he can achieve another battlefield miracle.
***
“You know what this is?” Paul asked.
“Tell me,” Red Cloud said.
“A Chinese wave assault.”
Paul and Red Cloud lay in their gully, both men using binoculars to scan the pack ice. On it approached an easy three hundred Chinese soldiers. They were spread out on the ice, with weapons ready. Behind them followed more Chinese soldiers.
“They mean to storm our island,” Red Cloud said.
Paul cradled a grenade launcher. It had advantages over a heavy machinegun. The biggest was that firing it wouldn’t give away their position. The enemy was still much too far out of range.
“We need some mortars,” Paul said.
“The lieutenant has the mines.”
They had been busy two hours ago, placing mines in the ice.
“Look there,” Red Cloud said, pointing to the left.
Paul turned his binoculars to where Red Cloud pointed. Snowtanks circled the island. His stomach curdled. The Chinese were trapping them.
Paul’s headphones in his helmet crackled. “We have to do something now!” a man shouted.
“We will,” Paul said. “We’ll do one thing at a time. The trick now is to kill Chinese.”
“Roger that,” the lieutenant said over the radio. “We let them bastards get close. Then I’ll trigger the mines.”
“What about the tanks circling us?” a man asked.
“One thing at a time like Kavanagh says,” the lieutenant answered. “So don’t crap your pants. Just get ready.”
“Yeah,” Paul whispered to himself. He gripped his grenade launcher and lay on the cold soil, watching the three hundred Chinese soldiers. Particles of snow like sand drifted across the ice, mingling with the mass of Chinese.
They waited another twelve minutes. By that time, Paul didn’t need binoculars. He could make out the red stars on the helmets of the approaching Chinese. The walking soldiers had drifted into squads. There were about forty Chinese moving directly toward them. The second wave followed in the distance.
“Get ready,” the lieutenant said over the radio. “…now,” he whispered.
Several seconds passed. Then loud explosions occurred on the ice. The fiery blasts of the mines sent Chinese soldiers fl
ying, those of the second wave. The mines took a frightful toll. The explosions caused many of the first wave attack to turn around.
“Here we go,” Paul said. He aimed the grenade launcher and fired. The round was magnetically ejected, and it flew as a dark object. It landed between the nearest Chinese and exploded.
***
“We need the tanks!” an infantry commander shouted over the radio to Bojing. Bojing was still in the command vehicle, with the majority of the snowtanks in his vicinity.
During the infantry advance, the snowtanks had crawled forward, but staying outside of TOW2 missile range.
“Our soldiers are exposed out on the ice,” the tank commander radioed Bojing.
Bojing clutched the receiver. If the tanks moved too fast, they would create wave-action under the ice. But it was a short hop now to the island. If he were here, General Nung would order the tanks to charge. Some might fall into the freezing water, but most would make it to land.
“Attack,” Bojing said.
“Sir?” asked the tank commander.
“You are to charge the island. Help the infantry kill the Americans.”
***
“We must retreat inland,” Paul said as he ducked down into the gully.
Enemy bullets caused frozen tundra to spit into the air. The surviving Chinese infantry of their forty had spotted them. The enemy soldiers lay on the ice and fired with light machineguns.
“The snowtanks are coming,” the Marine lieutenant said over the radio.
Paul glanced at their TOW2 launcher. There was no way they could fire it now. Chinese infantry had gotten near enough to lay down suppressing fire. It would be suicide to try to do now what they’d done to the hovertanks days earlier.
“Leave the TOW,” Red Cloud said. “Take the LAWS rocket.”
The LAWS rocket was old. It fired a shape-charged round. It was a one-shot disposable tube. They had two LAWS.
Paul didn’t argue. He crawled along the bottom of the gully. Behind him, Red Cloud followed. It was too bad they hadn’t placed the TOW elsewhere along the gully. But they couldn’t think of everything in advance. At least the mines had worked.
Invasion: Alaska Page 48
