Invasion: Alaska (43 page)

“I see it,” said Jose, who adjusted the Abrams’s gun.

The tri-turreted monster traversed two cannons at them as it clanked past burning Abrams tanks, those that never had a chance to leave the slope.

“It has us,” said Stan. He felt sick inside as the giant cannons aimed at his tank. There was no way his armor could stop the 175mm shells. This was murder.

The monster T-66 passed burning Abrams tanks littered behind the slope. One of those five M1A2s wasn’t burning, however, although it had been disabled. Now, as the giant Chinese tank clanked past it, the fifth Abrams’ turret adjusted slightly. Someone in the disabled tank was still alive! Before the T-66 could alter its path, the 120mm cannon fired at point blank range. The sabot round drilled into the mighty Chinese tank. The T-66 stopped, and it exploded, with turrets popping off.

“A miracle,” whispered Stan. “That was a miracle.”

“What now?” asked Hank.

Stan couldn’t speak, for the hatch to the fifth Abrams opened. Flames licked up as a man tried to climb out. Then he blew upward as the insides of his tank cooked off.

“Did you see that?” Stan whispered.

“I saw,” said Jose.

“He saved our lives,” said Stan.

“He let us get away.”

Stan felt numb inside. That was heroism. Bill charging the T-66s alone and the Abrams gunner just now—Stan made a fist. He struck the turret. “Let’s get out of here before the last T-66 shows up.”

He’d seen what those things could do. One T-66 was more than a match for five Abrams tanks.

“We had ten Abrams and now we have four,” Stan said. “They slaughtered us.”

“It isn’t over yet,” said Jose. “You’d better get us out of here,” Jose told Hank.

“Roger that,” said Stan. “It’s time to run away so we can live to fight another day.”

-13-

War in the Ice

ARCTIC OCEAN

Paul Kavanagh was tired, cold and sore. The sound of his skis was a constant noise, interspaced with a moaning wind that bit into his bones. Despite everything, he stared up at the polar darkness in awe. An eerie display of colors lit the heavens. It was the Northern Lights or the more scientific name of
Aurora Borealis
. Red and green patterns of light seemingly formed motionless waves of beauty before the stars.

Red Cloud glanced back at him, his features hidden under a ski mask. Maybe he noticed Paul’s fixation, for the Algonquin looked up. Resting on his ski poles, Red Cloud waited for Paul to catch up with him. Then the Algonquin began to cross-country ski beside Paul.

“Sunspots make the lights,” Red Cloud said.

“How?” asked Paul, who hadn’t spoken for days.

Red Cloud glanced at him again. The Algonquin had spoken to him several times a ski-period, even though Paul had never acknowledged him or his words. It was almost as if Red Cloud had been worried about his state of mind. Now Paul wondered if the Indian had felt lonely, if this Arctic desert adversely affected the Algonquin as it did him.

Did he fear I would give up and he’d be trapped alone in this icy wasteland?

“Protons and electrons are shot from the Sun in massive bursts during a Sun Storm,” Red Cloud said. “The protons and electrons strike the Earth’s atmosphere, and the planet’s magnetic field drives them to the poles. There they act like the charged particles in a fluorescent tube.”

“What kind of Indian are you?” asked Paul. He’d been expecting some ancient Algonquin myth, the way TV Indians always answered nature-related questions.

Red Cloud pointed at the heavenly display. “Green is the most common color. It is caused by atomic oxygen. Red is caused by molecular oxygen and nitrogen.”

“Were you a scientist?” asked Paul.

“…no. I love science fiction. Asimov taught me it was fine to desire to know the reason behind a thing, but Jack Vance has always been my favorite SF author.”

“Never heard of either one of them,” Paul said.

They fell silent then as they continued the endless trek across the pack ice. It was a monotonous journey and tedious to the mind. There was a flat expense of white in every direction as far as the eye could see.

“That’s interesting,” Paul said, who continued to stare at the Northern Lights.

Red Cloud grunted. He still pulled the toboggan, the supplies having dwindled since leaving Murphy in the stalled snowcat.

“Why does that little red light move like that?” asked Paul.

“Northern Lights do not visibly move.”

“That one sure does.”

Red Cloud looked up again. He stopped. Paul stopped beside him. They both watched the blinking, moving red light.

Suddenly, the Algonquin hissed, “Get down, and remain still.” He threw himself flat on the ice.

Paul did likewise as he slipped the assault rifle from his shoulder. He watched the blinking dot move along the Aurora Borealis.

“Look,” Paul said. “There’s another light farther behind the first.”

The two men glanced at each other. Then both craned their necks, studying the phenomenon. The second blinking light came toward them, following the light ahead of them.

“I see a third one even farther behind,” Red Cloud said.

“Yeah,” Paul said.

“They must be airplanes.”

“Or helicopters.”

“Listen,” Red Cloud said.

Paul listened, and he heard it, a faraway drone.

“These aircraft do not fly at the same height as the intercontinental planes,” whispered Red Cloud. “Maybe they fly low to escape high-flight detection.”

“They’re passing us—who knows how many miles to our left.” Paul studied the three locations. “They’re headed south which means they’re coming in from the north. Do you think this has anything to do with the destruction of Platform P-53?”

“Yes,” Red Cloud said.

“Yeah,” Paul said, nodding. “Why blow an oilrig? There has to be a good reason, a purpose.” He recalled Murphy watching him from the cat’s window. The mind-image brought a painful knot to his sternum. “Where are those aircraft going, do you think?”

“We will never know.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” Paul said with heat.

“Why are you angry?”

“You’re the one who wants to know how things work. You read science fiction. You’re supposed to be curious, right?”

“We must save our thoughts for survival,” Red Cloud said. “The Aurora Borealis and those points of light, they are good because they’ve brought you out of the gloom that filled your mind. Now we must conserve our strength—”

“Why did you tell me to hit the ice just now?” asked Paul.

“The unknown instills fear. I was afraid.”

“Wrong answer, Chief.”

Red Cloud grew still. “I do not care for you calling me that.”

Paul’s nostrils flared. Then he nodded as he thought about it. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. You and me are in this together. With Chinese Commandos blowing up our jobs we don’t need to bring up bad blood between ourselves.” Paul watched the blinking lights. “Do you think those are more Chinese?”

“The Chinese blew up the rig and tried to kill us. Now something odd occurs on the ice again, meaning the likeliest explanation is the Chinese doing something strange.”

“Are there anymore oilrigs or science posts around here?” Paul asked.

“Not along this route, no.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. He felt alive again. With the feeling came a desire to strike back, not to just take it all the time. The desire hardened, and he said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to follow those blinking lights.”

“You are using your emotions, not your mind. To do as you suggest will decreases our chances of survival.”

Paul jumped to his feet, using the assault rifle to point at the blinking lights. “My gut says those are choppers. First, what are choppers doing out here? Second, how far can choppers fly? They don’t fly as far on one tank of gas as a cargo plane.” Paul shook his head. “We’re never going to make it to Dead Horse. But if there’s a camp on the ice somewhere close by—”

“If there is a camp,” Red Cloud said, “it could be thirty, fifty or even seventy miles away from here.”

“Seventy miles is still closer than over two hundred miles away,” Paul said. He hesitated. “This is it, Red Cloud.” It was the first time he’d used the Algonquin’s last name. “Are we splitting up, or do we stick together and find out what’s going on?”

Red Cloud watched the blinking lights. “You are an American. I am an outcast without a country, maybe even the last of the free Algonquins. Let us die on the warpath as warriors, the two of us, former enemies facing impossible odds.” A hard smile stretched the woolen fabric of his ski mask. “This one time, you shall know what it feels like being an Indian.”

“Sure,” Paul said. “Let’s go.”

BEIJING, P.R.C.

Jian Shihong felt fear as he rode an elevator deep underground beneath Mao Square. The Chairman had summoned him to his personal bunker. Few entered it and fewer still left alive. According to Police Minister Xiaodan, who compiled such statistics, not even Deng Fong had ever been summoned down here.

Beside Jian in the elevator were two silent guards in black uniforms. They wore red armbands with the Chairman’s personal symbol in the center, the head of a lion with an imposing yellow mane. The guards towered over Jian. The occasional glances in his direction weren’t overtly hostile, but these two seemed contemptuous of him.

The two guards made Jian feel small and weak. His strength would prove futile against these two. If he were to oust the Chairman from power, he likely needed to figure out a way past the Lion Guard, as the security teams were named.

The elevator stopped, the door opened and one of the guards pushed Jian into a utilitarian steel corridor. He stumbled ahead of the two specimens of Chinese perfection.

The corridor was long, with iron-grilled lights glaring down on them. Knowing they were underground, under tons of earth, magnified Jian’s fear. He felt claustrophobic and soon he was short of breath.

“We’re almost there,” the nearer guard said.

Jian wanted to tell the man he wasn’t tired, but claustrophobic.

“Halt!” said a guard.

Jian stopped before a steel-reinforced door. It slid up, revealing a large room.

“In,” said the guard, shoving Jian into the room.

Behind Jian, before he could protest, the steel door slammed shut. It made Jian jump. A moment later, he heard a chuckle. He whirled around, taking in the room and the situation.

It was oval, with hundreds of posters on the walls. Each was a propaganda picture of the Chairman during various stages of his life. Some related to the Siberian War, others to the reunification of Taiwan. There were posters concerning hard work, more on worker safety, on exercise and on dietary habits. Each showed the Chairman exhorting or lauding others for some good behavior.

Jian saw that he’d reached the final antechamber where the badly ailing Chairman lay in the flesh. The Chairman was propped up in a large mobile medical unit. It was like a huge American recliner, with a joystick-control. The old man seemed small in it, with several medical tubes sticking into his side. He seemed mortally diseased and weak, the opposite of the security guards. Only the eyes seemed powerful, two pinpoints of energy seemingly burning-out the nearly useless husk of flesh.

“Welcome, Jian Shihong,” the Chairman said. Somewhere on the chair, a microphone must have picked up the words. It amplified them, making the Chairman’s withered voice painfully loud as it bounced off the steel walls.

Jian silently congratulated himself on keeping his features neutral. It was said the Chairman took odd or fearful facial expressions in the worst light possible, usually as a sign of guilt.

“I’ve brought you down to my quarters so we can speak freely,” the Chairman said.

“It is an honor,” Jian said.

“There are many spies in the outer world.”

“Yes,” Jian said.

“And not just CIA spies, but Chinese spies, the creatures of those who yearn to oust me.”

A sick thrill of fear coursed through Jian. Was the Chairman toying with him before the old man ordered his arrest? The Chairman kidnapped his worst enemies and sent them to experimental stations, where indentured scientists practiced hideous tortures.

“Do you wonder why I wish to speak freely with you?” the Chairman asked, with his eyes bright.

“I thought it would be concerning the war.”

“The war against hunger?”

Jian wondered if he could sprint across the room and throttle the Chairman before he was cut down. Hidden marksmen watched behind the walls. If he made a threatening motion, bullets would riddle his body. Or worse, they would sink knockout darts into him.

“I am at your service,” Jian said.

The Chairman’s chair swiveled as crooked fingers pressed controls. Part of the wall slid up to reveal a screen. “I have read statistics,” the Chairman said. “Our internal unrest is subsiding as the people watch news-shows and blogs about the war.”