Invasion: Alaska (53 page)

“Canadian laser batteries and SAMs,” the President said.

“Why did they wait so long?” asked the Secretary of State.

Clark shook his head. “I don’t know. But we have a chance again. We have a window of opportunity to rearm Anchorage. The Chinese are grinding our Air Force down to nothing, but this infusion of planes will help us keep fighting a little longer.”

“Thank God for that,” the Defense Secretary said.

“Now if we could just get the Mexican government to loan us equipment,” Colin Green said.

“It would help,” said Clark. He slapped the table. “The Canadians are keeping us alive. Now we need to do something to end this war. We need ideas.”

“We need more troops,” the Defense Secretary said.

Clark turned to General Alan. “What’s happening on the Northern Front?”

General Alan cleared his throat and began to speak.

SOLDOTNA, ALASKA

Pastor Bill Harris lay on cold earth as he peered through his binoculars at a convoy of Chinese vehicles. They were big trucks, and they were full of supplies, using the Number One Highway. Pines grew tall on the other side of the road.

“Well, Pastor?” asked the man beside Bill.

Sergeant Bill Harris of the Alaskan Militia lowered the binoculars. Over a week ago, he’d fought T-66s at Cooper Landing and barely escaped from his foxhole. His hearing was still lousy, with a constant ringing in his ears. Maybe as bad, his back hurt all the time.

He opened a bottle of aspirin, pouring three capsules onto his palm. He’d run out of Advil several days ago. He popped the aspirin into his mouth and began chewing. They were dry and bitter, but they helped battle the pain.

Bill lifted his bottle toward his friend Nanook, who sat nearby, deeper in the woods. The Inuit mechanic wore what looked like a turban. It swathed his face, with only his eyes showing. He had bad burns and he’d lost all his hair. Nanook shook his head. The man was a liability stuck out here behind enemy lines, but there was no way Bill was going to leave his buddy behind. He’d vowed to bring his friend home to his family.

“Well?” asked the man beside Bill.

Bill caped the bottle and shoved it into his pocket as he stayed on his belly. He wanted to go home to his wife and kids. He also wanted to stop the invasion.

The blasts that had destroyed a T-66 at Cooper Landing had also rendered Nanook unconscious. Three Militiamen had dragged him out of the battle and hidden with him as Chinese infantry swept the area. Now the five of them remained free, although they were behind enemy lines. The Chinese advance had passed them a week ago.

“We can still help our side,” Bill had told the others last night as they sat around a campfire in the woods. He had gotten sick of doing nothing.

“How can we help?” had asked a man named Carlos Martinez.

“Do any of you remember our invasion of Iraq thirty years ago?” Bill had been thinking about this for some time.

“The first or second invasion?” Carlos Martinez was a bank clerk who loved hunting like Bill. Carlos was also a corporal in the Militia and a member of Bill’s church.

“The second invasion on our drive to Baghdad,” Bill had said.

“What about Baghdad?” Carlos was a thin man with bowed legs. In another life, Carlos had played basketball after church some Sundays with Stan and the others.

Last night, Bill had told them what Stan Higgins had told him before. “We sliced through the Iraqi Army back then. Nothing could stop our tanks and APCs.”

Carlos had watched him closely.

“The great fear on our side was that Iraqi commandos or soldiers would hit our supply columns coming behind the tanks. The supply vehicles were thin-skinned, mostly Army trucks. The Iraqis hit a few, but never in any number. Well, we have a similar situation here. The Chinese aren’t just roaring through to Anchorage in a few days, but there’s not much to stop those T-66s for long. Luckily for us, the terrain gets rougher the closer they come to Anchorage. My guess is it’s a mess right now, if I know Stan Higgins. The Chinese are grinding through. That means they must be burning up lots of supplies, particularly ammo.”

“What’s your point?”

“We’re still stuck behind enemy lines, but we’re alive and we have weapons and enough .50 caliber ammo to do something. I say we start hunting Chinese supply vehicles. We do what Saddam’s Iraqis should have done to us.”

“How do we stay alive at the same time?”

“By judiciously choosing our time of attack.”

“What do you say?” one of the other Militiamen had asked Carlos. “Do you think that’s a good idea? I want to get out of this mess. I don’t want to play the hero and end up dead.”

Carlos had scratched his head, nodding after a time. “I remember my schooling about the American Revolution. Most people didn’t do anything back then. They just wanted to stay alive, a perfectly good thing, I might add. But that kind of thinking wouldn’t have won America its freedom. Maybe one third of the population was for American Independence. Even less fought for their freedom. Well, I want to be one of those who fights for liberty. I want to be free. Tell us what to do, Pastor.”

“I don’t know,” the other Militiaman had said. “We’re just five men. What can five men do to change the tide of war?”

“Men defend their home,” Bill had said. “Alaska is our greater home and we must defend it.”

“I agree to that,” Carlos had said.

Bill Harris swallowed the last of his aspirin now as he lay on his belly at the edge of the woods. He counted six big Chinese Army trucks heading up the road. There were soldiers in the cabs. The nearest section of road was a football field away from their position. Soldotna was only a few miles away from here. If they attacked, the Chinese military would have to react. The five of them would be hunted men after this.

“It’s time,” said Bill, who crawled backward, a little deeper into the shade of the pines.

Wearing his duck-hunting camouflage gear, Carlos crawled beside Bill.

Nanook slowly climbed up from where he sat. “You need help?” He slurred as he spoke.

“Yes,” Bill told his friend. “You help me and Carlos.”

The three men picked up an M2 Browning machinegun. With the tripod, it weighed one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. They lugged it to the edge of the forest. The other two Militiamen wrestled a second M2 into position.

“We’re only going to take one of these weapons with us once we’re done attacking here,” Bill told the others. “So you don’t need to worry about saving ammo for your gun. Aim low, and try to fire in bursts. Start with the front vehicle and make it stop. Then work back to the next truck. If you see any soldiers jumping out, and especially if they’re firing at us, kill them. Any questions?”

No one had any.

Bill took a deep breath. The big trucks took a bend in the road. He could hear them shifting gears as the trucks began to climb. Soon they would be in range. Why did his stomach have to clench so tightly? He’d been in combat before. He was a veteran, but he sure didn’t feel like one. Did a man ever get used to this?

Nanook panted as he knelt beside the tripod-mounted M2. Carlos readied more ammo belts, ready to feed them into the death-dealing weapon. In World War One, machineguns like this had been the big killer.

“If we cut the supply lines their army will wither away,” Bill said softly. “We’re not cutting that line here, but we are going to make them bleed. If we can make them bleed enough, the Chinese attack will collapse.”

Carlos nodded.

Bill waited as the trucks kept grinding up the rise, and his stomach churned even more. He didn’t want to murder men, and this felt close to murder. But the Chinese had invaded Alaska. He had a right to defend his country. The Chinese had better tanks, while their side had little to face the T-66 monsters. Therefore, he had to fight with what he had, but against Chinese he could beat.

Taking a deep breath, aligning his sights on the lead truck, on the cab, Bill depressed one of the buttons with his thumb. The M2 Browning had a V-shaped “butterfly” trigger at the very rear of the weapon. With his thumb down, the M2 hammered out armor-piercing incendiary tracer bullets. It was a visible stream of death. Bill adjusted as he hosed the lead truck. Then the bullets began puncturing the cab. As they hit, the bullets smoked on contact as designed, helping Bill to know where he hit.

A second later, the heavy truck slewed across the highway. Then it skidded. Bill could hear it from here. A moment later, the truck flipped onto its side because the driver must have cranked the steering wheel too sharply. The driver must have panicked or maybe he’d been dying.

The other machine-gunner shouted wildly as crates flew out of the flipped truck.

Now the other trucks stopped. Cab doors flew opened and Chinese soldiers jumped down onto the highway. They gripped assault rifles. Some dropped onto their bellies and began firing. A few ran for the side of the highway.

Bill took his thumb off the trigger-button and swiveled the machinegun. He opened fire again, adjusting as the tracer rounds visibly shot over the enemies’ heads. Then running enemy soldiers began falling as he hit them. Those on their bellies must have seen the tracer rounds. They must have visibly followed them back to their source, because the enemy redirected his assault-rifle fire. Bill heard bullets hissing past him, while bark flew off nearby trees.

Bill began shouting as the .50 caliber weapon chugged away. It was better at long range than the assault rifles. Then an enemy bullet hit Bill in the chest. He tumbled backward and lay on the cold dirt breathing heavily.

“Bill!” shouted Carlos.

With a groan, Bill sat up and scrambled back to the machinegun. Looted durasteel body-armor had saved him from death. If the Chinese had fired .50 caliber bullets, the armor wouldn’t have saved him.

“You okay?” shouted Carlos.

For an answer, Bill gripped the machinegun and began firing again. He scowled fiercely, determined and shooting with bitter accuracy. It was grim work, and he began hitting Chinese lying on the road.

“You don’t get to win this time,” Bill whispered. Suddenly, his machinegun went click, click, click.

An enemy bullet
whanged
off a tree. Another shot hissed uncomfortably near. It made his chest throb where the enemy bullet had hit his armor.

Carlos opened the machinegun’s latch. He slid in the next belt and chambered the first round. “Ready!” Carlos shouted.

Bill began firing again. One of the trucks behind the remaining soldiers lying on the road exploded in an orange fireball. The M2’s incendiary rounds were made to ignite fuel tanks. Three of the nearest Chinese leaped to their feet.

Bill cut them down. They fell in such a ragged way that it almost didn’t seem human. One of the Chinese pitched his rifle away in his death throes. Another of them curled up on the road like a burning bug. This was terrible, but Bill had to do it. He knew he’d feel guilty later. It made him think of Stan’s dad killing men in Afghanistan. No wonder Colonel Higgins’ mind had turned on itself. This was sickening, but it was better than dying himself.

Then it was over. No more Chinese fired back. All the trucks had stopped, several of them were burning, and all of them had flat tires. Bill found himself blinking in shock at what he’d done.

“We did it,” Carlos said. The Militia corporal was shaking. “I helped you kill men.” Carlos was wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

Why do we feel so unclean?

Carlos twisted onto his hands and knees, puking on the ground.

Something about that woke Bill to their danger. “We have to go,” he said. “Now!” Then he realized he heard a chopper. It wasn’t right on top of them yet, but he was sure it was coming for them. “Go!” Bill roared at the other team.

“We still have ammo!” one of them shouted. “We’re taking it.”

“Okay,” Bill said. “Carlos?”

“I’m fine,” Carlos said, getting up and wiping his mouth. Then the corporal picked up the tripod mount, handing it to Bill. Afterward, the bank clerk wrestled the heavy machinegun onto his shoulder. It was a grim burden.

“Come on, Nanook,” Bill said softly, helping his friend to his feet. “We have to run into the woods.”

“We got them,” Nanook whispered. “We did it.”

“We’re fighting,” Bill said, as he picked a box of ammo. Nanook took another box before heading deeper into the pines. “We’re going to keep fighting,” said Bill. “Maybe if there are enough of us doing this, it will help us win the war.”

“We’ll win,” said Carlos. There was conviction in his voice.

“I hope you’re right,” said Bill. He knew Carlos, however. The man said that even when he was losing twenty to three playing one-on-one basketball. That was probably better than having a bitter pessimist along. The chopper sounded closer now, so Bill increased the pace, hoping Nanook could keep up with them. After what he’d just done, he knew he had to bring Nanook home or he could never preach again. He had to atone someway for all this dreadful killing.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

Lieutenant Chiang of the Eagle Teams squinted at a bomber roaring over his position. It had a maple leaf painted on the wing.