Invasion: Alaska

by Vaughn Heppner

  Soon, Paul stood hunched over. He carried the grenade launcher and the LAWS, with a strap around each shoulder. Behind on the ice, snowtanks roared for the island.

  Paul and Red Cloud ran up a slope and slid behind it. The snowtanks came from many directions.

  “Look,” Red Cloud said.

  Paul saw it. A TOW2 missile streaked across the ice. Several seconds later, it hit, and there was one less Chinese tank. More TOWs fired.

  “Ha!” the Marine lieutenant shouted over the radio.

  “What happened?” radioed Paul.

  “The Chinese tanks are moving fast,” the lieutenant informed them. “I just saw the ice open up under one, and it disappeared.”

  “It would be good if that happened to all of them,” Red Cloud said.

  Paul cursed and slapped a hand on Red Cloud’s shoulder. Then he pointed. Three snowtanks approached the island. No infantry had made it here. Those had been some of the flanking tanks.

  Explosive sounds occurred, and on the ice under the first tank appeared a zigzagging crack. The Chinese tanks kept coming.

  “Open up,” Paul whispered. “Break apart.”

  It didn’t happen. Instead, the three snowtanks made it to Cross Island, leaving the pack ice to clank over tundra. Each snowtank was made up of two separate sections or cabs, linked together by an articulated joint. On the first section was the main tank gun. The second section had heavy machineguns and an ATGM launcher.

  “Our luck has run out,” Red Cloud said.

  “We’ll have to make our own luck,” Paul said. “Come on, this way.”

  They had the combat suits. It muffled their thermal and infrared signatures, and they were white like ghosts. Paul crawled. Red Cloud followed.

  The snowtanks clanked up the slope and then turned toward the Chinese infantry. The two teams were likely going to link up. Tanks with infantry support would be almost impossible to kill on the island with the weapons they had.

  “This is it,” Paul said. He got up, and he ran down-slope toward the three tanks. Red Cloud followed.

  The clanking-rattle sound of the snowtanks was ominous. The hovers were the king of the ice. The snowtanks would rule on the tundra. If they reached Dead Horse….

  Paul threw himself onto his belly, and he flipped up the sights on his LAWS. “This is for you, Murphy.” Paul squeezed the trigger.

  A second later, the LAWS whooshed, and the shape-charged round sped at a tank. It hit the front section and exploded. There was a loud squeal, and the tank stopped.

  Paul crawled like mad. He slid into a gully just as the tank’s machineguns opened up at him.

  “Are you ready?” Paul asked.

  “Roger,” Red Cloud said, who had stayed behind.

  Paul got up and ran in a crouch.

  “There’s two on your tail,” Red Cloud radioed.

  Paul sprinted with everything he had. It felt like his football days. A tank appeared at the top of the slope behind him. Paul dove and rolled behind an outcropping of soil. At the same moment, a kneeling Red Cloud fired his LAWS, and it scored a hit, stopping the enemy tank.

  Paul thrust himself up, and he kept moving inland toward the center of the island. His suit cooled his sweat. That helped. He sucked on a water tube. That helped more. His side began to ache, but Paul kept running over the tundra, with Red Cloud beside him. The last of the three tanks must have joined the infantry.

  “I wonder…how our side is doing,” Paul panted.

  Red Cloud didn’t answer.

  After that, Paul concentrated. Fourteen minutes later, they spotted the helicopter. The blades were slowly turning and the big bay door was still open. A man in a combat suit was climbing in.

  Paul was exhausted. The pain in his side was agony. But he’d been through this before. He ignored the pain and concentrated on pushing himself. The helicopter was life. If he could reach it, he could go home again. If he failed, he died or became a prisoner of the Chinese. Beside him, Red Cloud faltered.

  “No,” Paul whispered. He grabbed the Algonquin and kept him going.

  Soon, they crawled into the helicopter. Helping hands yanked them in. The blades were turning faster now, and now the Marine chopper lurched as it lifted off the cold ground.

  Paul’s eyes glazed over, and he waited, wondering if the Chinese would shoot them out of the air. It didn’t happen. They raced out the back of the island, a handful of men: seven to be exact. The lieutenant never made it, leaving the pilot in charge.

  “Where next?” asked Paul.

  “Far away from here,” the pilot said as they climbed into the night sky, heading west so they wouldn’t run up against the Chinese air defense in Dead Horse.

  ***

  Lieutenant-General Bojing technically won the small action at Cross Island. But he had taken appalling losses: fourteen snowtank and half his infantry either dead or wounded. When his men counted the number of enemy dead, it frightened Bojing. These Americans were tigers.

  “What now, sir?” the tank commander asked.

  “Now we dash to Dead Horse and add our numbers to General Nung.”

  It was bold talk, but Bojing knew now that Nung wouldn’t achieve greatness with the addition of these paltry forces. They would need more soldiers and more tanks, many more, if they hoped to conquer the rest of northern Alaska.

  PRCN SUNG

  As night fell over the fleet, Admiral Ling sat in his ready room, staring at a screen showing an aerial three-dimensional map of Anchorage. His ground commanders had driven a deep wedge into the city, but they were fast running out of fuel.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Enter,” said Ling, as he continued to stare at the computer screen.

  Commodore Yen slipped in. He took a chair before Ling and waited in silence.

  “The American pickup-attack against our land convoy was a brilliant move,” Ling said quietly.

  “We have more soldiers,” said Yen.

  Ling shook his head. “We’re almost out of fuel. Now our ammo situation is deteriorating. If we could move all that we have on the beachheads to the front, it would be a different story. But these Americans….”

  “One final push led by the T-66s can still reach the Anchorage refineries,” said Yen. “Then all will be well.”

  “Tomorrow, we shall see,” said Ling.

  “You must beg the Chairman for more supplies. Our naval infantry can dig in as they wait for greater reinforcements.”

  “Will the Chairman send us more with winter nearing?” asked Ling. “Winter-fighting in Alaska will bring us more blizzards of the type we just endured. I fear that we began the campaign in the wrong season.”

  Commodore Yen said nothing to that.

  After a time, Admiral Ling continued to adjust the computer screen.

  ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

  It was mid-morning of the second day of the Battle for Anchorage. Stan crouched beside Major Philips’s corpse. Police Sergeant Jackson had dragged the body out of a destroyed Stryker. The vehicle hadn’t moved fast enough this last time.

  During these two days, Philips, Jackson and Stan had lured, ambushed and destroyed three T-66 tri-turreted tanks.

  Stan glanced at the smashed Stryker as he inhaled the stink of machine oil and hot metal. A large building loomed over them. Shattered glass, piles of black snow and rubble littered the sidewalks and paving. Looking up the street, Stan inspected the wrecked T-66. Chinese corpses lay around it, the tanker crew trying to escape their crippled monster.

  The sounds of war reverberated from hundreds of buildings. Chinese artillery boomed outside the city, sending shells screaming into the concrete jungle. There was constant rifle fire, vehicle cannons and hammering machineguns. Anchorage looked like old war footage with guttered grocery stores, smashed banks and demolished retail outlets.

  Standing, Stan adjusted his durasteel armor. He felt hollow and his eyes hurt. There was a bloody bandage around his head for his torn left ear. It made wearing
his helmet uncomfortable. Only his Abrams remained. The other two M1A2s had paid the ultimate price, just like Philips. Jose was at the back of the tank, inspecting the engine. Hank checked treads.

  “One Abrams can’t do much against the rest of the T-66s,” Stan said. Philips’s Stryker had been the last of their ‘bait’ team. Jackson was the last police officer of their squad still able to walk.

  “It’s not over until it’s over,” Jackson muttered.

  Stan glanced at him. The officer had a stony face, his eyes like flint. “Last man standing, huh?”

  “I swore an oath a long time ago to protect the people of the city,” Jackson said. “I’m going to do that until I die.”

  “That won’t take us long,” Stan said. “The Chinese have too much heavy ordnance for us.” They had destroyed three T-66s and damaged others, almost taking out two more. Those others had retreated to the Chinese side for repairs.

  “You still have your tank,” Jackson said, “and I have my assault rifle.”

  Stan frowned. The man had been running from T-66s since yesterday, luring more than half-a-dozen into ambush. It was a thankless task and had killed or crippled all the other volunteers. The thing that galled Stan was that it could have worked as a tactic. The Chinese simply had too many of those monsters compared to what America possessed here.

  Stan moved his lower jaw, trying to make it so his torn ear didn’t hurt so much. That proved impossible. Stan sighed. He was bone tired, exhausted.

  “I want to see them,” he said. “Maybe we can figure out something better.”

  Jackson stared up the street. He seemed to be listening to the sounds of combat. The police officer knew the city, all the little side streets and secret ways. It was his knowledge that had let them kill as many T-66s as they had.

  “Follow me,” Jackson said.

  They crunched over glass and rubble, trotting at times, gripping their weapons and hunching.

  “This way,” Jackson said.

  The police officer led Stan into a guttered building. They climbed creaking stairs and warily approached a shot-up window. Glass shards littered a desk near the window. Stan swept the glass onto the floor and peered outside.

  There was a giant parking lot in the distance, the shell of a parking garage and many other empty lots. Long ago, car dealerships had displayed hundreds of new vehicles there. Now the lead elements of the next Chinese assault moved across the open area. Operationally, the enemy attack had wedged into the city like a triangle. The point—the T-66s—had made it three-quarters of the way through. They were only a little over a mile away from the storage depots.

  “Look at that,” Stan said. “I count five heavies. We have nothing left to stop those.”

  “We have your tank.”

  “It isn’t enough,” said Stan. “It would be suicide to continue what we’ve been doing.”

  “We can’t let the Chinese take Anchorage.”

  Stan eyes ached as he watched those giant tanks. Three cannons per vehicle, each of those a 175mm gun. He thought of Major Benson and the twenty M1A3s he had brought from California. That had been a great moment, when Benson’s tanks had scored those hits.

  “What’s happening?” Jackson asked.

  “What?”

  “That T-66 over there,” Jackson said, pointing with his assault rifle.

  The lead tri-turreted tank shuddered and began to slow down. That caused the T-66 behind it to veer out of the way so it could go past.

  “Why is the tank slowing down in the middle of an open area?” Jackson asked. “Are they going to set up a strongpoint there?”

  The T-66 slowed and then stopped. With a loud rattling sound, its engine quit.

  The other T-66s passed the stalled monster. Soon, Chinese naval infantry passed the vehicle. As they did, hatches opened and Chinese tankers popped outside.

  In wonder, Stan turned to Sergeant Jackson. “You know what that is?”

  Jackson shook his head.

  “That tank just ran out of gas,” Stan said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I know that sound. I’ve heard a similar noise too many times from my own gas-hungry tank. That T-66 just plum ran out of gas.”

  “Seems strange, doesn’t it?”

  Stan smashed the butt of his assault rifle against the desk. “It’s more than strange. You don’t send a half-empty tank into battle, not if you can help it. You especially don’t do that when the tank is so important to your assault. You drain less important vehicles of their fuel so the critical vehicle has enough. I think the enemy is low on fuel.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Jackson said. “China is the oil king of the world.”

  Stan was blinking at the other T-66s. A cold feeling worked through his tired body. Maybe it did make sense. “They have oil,” he said. “But do they have enough transports?”

  Jackson glanced at him.

  “It’s a long way from China to here,” Stan said. “Then they have to move everything through the Kenai Peninsula. That means the Number One Highway, a single ribbon of road, one clogged by the storm. I think the enemy is low on fuel. By that stalled T-66, I think critically low.”

  “So?” Jackson asked.

  Stan swiveled around as he glanced at the stairs. His mouth opened and he blinked his red eyes. “If they’re low on fuel….” He frowned as he stared out of the window again. “Shit,” he whispered.

  “What is it, Professor?”

  Stan grabbed Jackson by the arm. “The Chinese are headed for the fuel depots. They need our fuel. We have to blow them?”

  “Our side needs the fuel,” Jackson said.

  “Come on!” Stan shouted, as he headed for the stairs. “Run!”

  ***

  “General Sims, sir,” Stan said over the radio. “You have to listen to me.”

  Captain Higgins was inside his Abrams, heading for the giant fuel depots. The Chinese were less than a mile from the storage facility. Jackson rode inside the tank with the rest of the crew. Stan had worked the radio, climbing through the chain of command until finally he spoke with C-in-C of Alaska, General Sims.

  “I just saw a T-66 run out of gas, sir,” Stan said, as he clicked the receiver.

  “Yes?” Sims asked. “That happens all the time to us, Captain.”

  “You don’t understand, sir. I think the Chinese are low on fuel.”

  “There’s always the possibility,” Sims said, “but I find that unlikely.”

  “Yet what if it’s true, sir?”

  “Is there a reason for this call?” Sims asked.

  “The Chinese need our fuel depots. That’s why they’re driving for it.”

  “It’s an important military target, certainly.”

  “Sir, this is just like the Western Desert of World War Two. Before the Germans arrived, British General O’Conner used Italian fuel dumps to keep his drive alive as he drove for the main Italian-run ports.”

  “What are you babbling about, Captain?”

  “We have to destroy our fuel depots,” Stan said. “We have to blow them.”

  “We need those storage units,” Sims said.

  “Sir, we don’t have much time.”

  “There aren’t any engineers near there. Besides, we’re not going to lose them. I thought this was a battle request, Captain. You and your team have done a fine job of destroying T-66s. Keeping doing that and we’ll win. But leave the strategy to me.”

  Stan stared at his receiver. Should he keep arguing? Could he make General Sims understand? His grip tightened and he felt lightheaded.

  “Yes, sir,” Stan said. “I’m sorry if I sounded presumptuous.”

  “You’re tired, Captain. I understand. Hold out and keep fighting. We’re not finished yet.”

  Yes, we are, especially if the Chinese capture those storage tanks intact. Instead of saying that, Stan signed off.

  “So much for that,” Jackson said.

  “Wrong,” Stan said. “Hank, are you
looking at your city map?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hank said.

  “Take us to the fuel depots,” Stan said.

  Jackson stared up at him.

  “Are you ready for this?” Stan asked the police officer.

  “You’re taking a lot on yourself, Professor,” Jackson said.

  “Sometimes a battle is decided with a man and his rifle…if he happens to be at exactly the right spot,” Stan said. “This time, it’s a crew and its tank at the critical juncture.”

  “And if you’re wrong?” Jackson asked.

  “I’m not wrong,” Stan said. “Hank?”

  “Hang on,” Hank said.

  ***

  “General Sims must have radioed ahead,” Hank said. “I’m seeing a military detail outside the gate. It looks like they mean to stop us.”

  They’d driven through the city and to the entrance of the huge storage depot. Beyond the gate were giant white oil tanks that held millions of gallons of gas, diesel and kerosene.

  Stan peered through his scope. There was a Bradley, three Humvees and several squads of soldiers positioned before the gate behind piled sandbags. A chain-link fence circled the giant storage facility.

  “What do we do now?” Jose asked.

  “Sergeant Jackson,” Stan said. “Do you mind going outside and talking to them?”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Your best lines of B.S.,” Stan said. “Con them into lowering their guns.”

  “And if they don’t?” Jackson asked.

  “Then surrender immediately.”

  “What about you?” Jackson asked.

  “I’ll wait until you’re well outside the tank,” Stan said.

  Jackson stared at him, and finally, he nodded. “Good luck, Professor. I hope you’re right about this.”

  They shook hands. Then Stan opened his hatch and Jackson climbed out.

  “Give him a minute,” Stan said.

  From outside, an officer shouted at Jackson, “Why is your tank here?”

  “Are you two ready?” Stan asked.

  Jose turned and looked up. “Just give me the word, Stan.”