Invasion: Alaska

brigades for a mass assault against metropolitan Anchorage.”

“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Qiang.

“You will also begin to implement your secret plan for crippling the American Navy,” the Chairman said. “In two weeks, no less than three, we must surprise the world with a bold snatching of Alaska.”

“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Qiang.

“Marshal, you shall finalize preparations for this cross-polar raid. Use the trains, use air transport, but get those specialist units ready for an immediate assault across the ice.”

“What if the Navy fails in its assigned tasks, sir?” asked the marshal. “It might leave my men open on the north slope of the Alaskan coast.”

“You will plan for Navy success,” the Chairman said, “not for failure. But if you feel that you cannot perform this task, tell me at once so I may find a general who can.”

“The Army will not fail you, sir,” the marshal said.

A grim smile stretched the Chairman’s face, showing the wrinkles there and the spottiness of his skin. He was diseased, but he seemed more invigorated than he had been for a long time.

A conqueror only truly loves conquering. Jian’s profilers had guessed right, and he was gaining a new lease on life. It was strange but heady to think he had brought about a war with America through his words. His words were a lever that were about to move the world. That was power, and it felt good, very good.

“Our Minister of Agriculture has seen farther than the rest of you,” the Chairman said. “We will not repeat the failure that faced Cheng Ho. This time, the Chinese will rise above every nation on Earth and stamp the world with its superior civilization. First, however, we must survive this new glacial period and gain for our people a secure food supply. Are there any here who disagree with our plan?”

Those last words were famous. According to legend they’d been spoken a week before the Siberian Invasion. Also, according to a much-whispered story, a minister had spoken up then, urging caution. As if delighted, the Chairman had thanked the minister for the courage to speak his mind. He had asked the minister to step outside with him so the man could tell him his worries in private. The two had left the room and they had left the other ministers and generals. Seconds later, a shot had rung out. The Chairman returned alone, with a smoking pistol in his hand.

Today, no one spoke up against the finalized plan, not even Deng.

“Then I declare the meeting over,” the Chairman said. “Everyone is dismissed. Ah, except for you, Jian Hong. I wish to speak with you alone. I would know more how you envision this battle to proceed.”

Jian’s heart beat faster. He had intrigued and plotted to survive Deng’s personal attack. Might he have stumbled onto the key to the highest position? Was the Chairman going to name him as his successor? Winning the war against America could possibly give him everything, while losing it—no, he mustn’t think about that. China would win. For his sake, it had to.

-4- Placement

ALASKA

The small plane shuddered as metal groaned. All around Paul Kavanagh, men swore and gripped their armrests tightly. Outside, the wind howled like a legion of arctic demons. Each change in pitch sent the plane lurching in a different direction. There were eight new Blacksand employees in the plane’s passenger seats.

From the rearmost one, Paul stared out of a tiny window. It was dark outside except for the particles of white that beat against the glass. He couldn’t see the stars. He couldn’t see the ground. He couldn’t see crap and that was starting to make him hate this place. It was ten times worse here than northern Quebec. The Canadian Shield had been a rocky wasteland of snow, pines and the most ancient stones in the world. There had never been storms like this during his combat against the French-Canadian separatists.

According to what the Blacksand rep had told the eight of them before boarding in Anchorage, the plane was likely north of the tree line by now. Beyond the tree line was the tundra, a land of ice, snow and blizzards worse than any Saharan sandstorm.

Another gust howled around their puny craft. The plane lurched upward as metal groaned. It felt as if a giant twisted the fuselage, trying to pry it apart and spill them like ants onto the snow below. Just how far below the snow actually was, Paul had no idea, and that also troubled him.

A speaker crackled into life several feet away, and the pilot spoke. At least, Paul figured it was the pilot. The man was hidden behind a curtain up front, a curtain that swayed far too much. Paul heard garbled words from the speaker. He had no idea what the pilot was trying to tell them, and there was no way he was going to unbuckle to crawl closer to find out, either, so he was glad when the speaker quit broadcasting its gibberish.

A new wind shoved them sideways and the plane seemed to skip like a stone flung across a pond. Paul might have heard a moan. It was hard to hear anything but the roaring engines and wind. Then the man across the aisle was bent over, his forehead shoved against the back of the seat before him. The man spewed onto his black combat boots. The grim odor caused Paul’s own stomach to lurch.

As the man wiped his lips, he glanced over. Paul remembered that his name was Murphy. The man was squat, with dark, curly hair and the whitest face Paul had ever seen. There were beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. Murphy was an ex-Army Ranger and had bragged earlier about his sniper skills. He’d said something about hoping to bag seals. He said the Eskimos used to do it with harpoons. According to Murphy, now the Inuit used rifles to take headshots. They had to make sure they killed the seal with a single shot. The marine mammals slept by their air holes, and if you only wounded the beast, it slid into the hole and out of sight.

Paul wondered how many seals lived near the oil rig where they were headed. Were they like sea lions in Monterey, California, the kind that never stopped barking? He remembered his honeymoon in Monterey and eating out at night on the Old Fisherman’s Wharf. Cheri had commented several times on the barking sea lions.

The treacherous wind shifted yet again, shoving the plane down. Paul’s gut lurched as they dropped into a freefell. For a sickening instant, he couldn’t hear the engines. Is this what it felt like to space-walk, to float in zero gravity? Then the engines roared once more. It was a tortured sound, but welcome nonetheless. The plane quit falling, and it pitched forward, buffeted one way and then another.

In the plane’s flickering cabin light, Paul saw moisture in Murphy’s eyes.

“We’ll make it!” Paul shouted into Murphy’s ear. You could hardly call it an aisle between them. It had been hard for both of them squeezing into their seats. Paul could barely hear his own words and wondered if Murphy had heard him. He clapped Murphy on the shoulder, squeezing, trying to impart hope into the man. Paul felt iron-hard muscles. He wondered why Murphy had left the Army Rangers. Was he another hard case? Were they all losers in this plane, each in his separate way?

Shaking his head, Paul vowed that this time he was going to win. This time he’d keep his job. He’d excel and send Mikey—and Cheri—the money they needed.

The speaker crackled into life again, and the pilot spoke more of his gibberish. Paul would have liked to know what the man was saying.

Instead of unbuckling to find out, though, Paul hunched his head and watched the white particles appear out of the darkness and beat against the window. For all he could see, this might as well have been some alien planet. He hoped the pilot had radar and could talk to someone to guide them to a safe landing.

* * *

Two-and-a-quarter hours later, the plane skidded across a runway in Dead Horse. The place was the last inhabited spot before the vast ocean of ice. Most of Dead Horse had been constructed out of prefabricated buildings, an island of light in the Arctic darkness.  It was the nearest “town” to Prudhoe Bay.

Several years ago, the Prudhoe Bay oilfields had been given a new lease on life. The science of extracting oil had continued to advance. New, deeper oilfields had been discovered here, dwarfing the existing fields and expanding Alaska’s importance. Combined with the recently built derricks in ANWR, this northern slope region had become one of the most concentrated oil-producing sites in the world.

The plane finally came to a stop and two snowmobiles raced to them. Soon, a hatch opened and the men